w v^ 



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) ' • • B Y • • • Qfj 
HENRY \ 
ARTHUR T 
1 JONES /£/ 



SECOND COPY. 









2o- of Cop- 



library OF CONGRESS. 

• ' - . 

Chap Copyright No 

Shel£_L_:L__ 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



JAN 



AjkJ 



1893 



THE PHYSICIAN 



^ 9 o ■ » ■ ■ 

(150 copies only of this edition were printed 
December, 189S) 



THE PHYSICIAN 



AN ORIGINAL PLAY 

IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 



HENRY ARTHUR JONES 
ii 

AUTHOR OF 

MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL,' ' THE CRUSADERS,' ' THE CASE 

OF REBELLIOUS SUSAN,' 'jUDAH,' ' THE MIDDLEMAN,' ' THE 

TRIUMPH OF THE PHILISTINES,' ' THE DANCING GIRL,' 

'THE TEMPTER,' 'THE ROGUE'S COMEDY,' 'THE 

MASQUERADERS,' ' THE LIARS,' 'THE GOAL,' 

' THE MANOEUVRES OF JANE,' ETC. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO.. Ltd. 

1899 

All rights reserved 



) 






S13 



Copyright, 1898 
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

TWO COPIES RSc-iveo, 




£g)oimt pleasant C3rtntap 

J. Horace McFarland Company 
Harrisburg, Pa. 






Produced by Mr. Charles Wyndham, at the Criterion 
Theatre, London, on the 25th March, 1897 



PERSONS REPRESENTED 

Dr. Lewin Carey. 
Walter Amphiel. 
Reverend Peregrine Hinde. 
Dr. Brooker. 
Stephen Gurdon. 
James Hebbings. 
John Dibley. 
Viccars. 

Edana Hinde. 

Lady Valerie Camville. 

Mrs. Bowden. 

Mrs. Dibley. 

Louisa Pack. 

Marah Gurdon, a child. 

Saunders, Lady Valerie's maid. 

Lizzie, the Vicarage servant. 



(v) 



ACT I 

Consulting-Room at Dr. Lewin Carey's, 
39 Cavendish Square. 

( Three months pass. ) 

ACT II 

Saint Edana's Well and Church, Fontleas. 

{Six months pass. ) 

ACT III 

The Abbot's Kitchen, Fontleas. 

{Nine months pass. ) 

ACT IV 

The Vicarage Drawing-Room, Fontleas. 
Time.— Present Day. 



(vii) 



The following is a copy of the original play-bill of 
" The Physician.'" 

CRITERION THEATRE. 
Lessee and Manager — Mr. Charles Wyndham. 

On Thursday, 25th March, 1897, for the first time, a 
new Play of modern life, in Four Acts, entitled 

THE PHYSICIAN 

By HENRY ARTHUR JONES 

Dr. Lewin Carey Mr. Charles Wyndham. 

Rev. Peregrine Hinde . . . Mr. Alfred Bishop. 

Walter Amphiel Mr. T. B. Thalberg. 

Dr. Brooker Mr. Leslie Kenyon. 

Stephen Gurdon Mr. J. G. Taylor. 

James Hebbings Mr. Kenneth Douglas. 

John Dibley Mr. A. E. George. 

Viccars Mr. F. H. Tyler. 

Postman Mr. F. Vigay. 

Lady Valerie Camville . . Miss Marion Terry. 

Mrs. Bowden Miss E. Vining. 

Mrs. Dibley Miss Carlotta Addison. 

Louisa Pack Miss Jocelyn. 

Marah Miss Valli Valli. 

Lizzie Miss M. Clayton. 

Saunders Miss D. Fellowes. 

Edana Hinde Miss Mary Moore. 



ACT I 

Consulting-Room at Dr. Lewin Carey's, 
39 Cavendish Square. 

( Three months pass. ) 

(viii) 



THE PHYSICIAN i 

ACT II 

Saint Edana's Well and Church at Fontleas 
(Walter Hann). 

{Six months pass. ) 

ACT III 

The Abbot's Kitchen, Fontleas (Walter Hann). 

( Ten months pass. ) 

ACT IV 

The Vicarage, Fontleas. 

Time— The Present. 



There will be an interval of about ten minutes between Acts I., II. 
III., and about five minutes between Acts III. and IV. 



Matinees of "The Physician," Wednesday, 31st March, 
Saturday, 3rd April, and every following Saturday. 



Stage Manager — Mr. Percy Hutchison. 

Musical Director — Mr. Victor Hollaender. 

Acting Manager and Treasurer — Mr. E. Harvey. 



ACT I 

Scene— Consulting-Room at Dr. Lewin Carey's, 
Cavendish Square, a substantially-furnished room, 
such as would be used by a London physician in 
good practice. 

Door down stage l. Door at back l. Fireplace at 
back R. Windows r. Book-cases, containing 
medical works, round the room. One or two 
good oil paintings. 

Time : late on an April afternoon. 

Enter door at back, Viccars, Dr. Carey' s butler, 
showing in Walter Amphiel. Amphiel is a 
pale, thin, and very delicate-looking man about 
thirty; striking, earnest features, with a win- 
ning, lovable expression ; rather weak mouth; 
restless, furtive eyes with a hunted look in them. 
His ordinary manner is absent, dreamy, self- 
absorbed, and there is a strangeness and indecision 
in his movements and speech, but this at times 
gives place to fits of feverish energy. 

b (l) 



2 THE PHYSICIAN act I 

Viccars. Dr. Carey is attending a consul- 
tation, sir, but I expect him back shortly. 
Amphiel. I'll wait. 
Viccars. What name shall I say ? 
Amphiel. My name doesn't matter. I'll 
wait. {Exit Viccars at back. ) 

(Amphiel furtively watches Viccars off, 
and as soon as the door has closed, goes 
quickly to the book-shelves, runs his eye 
eagerly over them as if searching for 
something, takes out a particular book, 
looks at index, opens it at a certain 
page, sits down, reads eagerly. A short 
pause. ) 

Enter Viccars at back, showing in Dr. Brooker, 
a middle-aged man, brisk, genial, robust ; san- 
guine complexion ; a little stout, a little bald. 

(As Brooker enters, Amphiel shows rec- 
ognition and a little embarrassment, 
hiding his head behind his book.) 

Brooker (entering). Thank you, Viccars. 
Dr. Carey does expect me, doesn't he? 

Viccars. Yes, sir. He left word if you 
came that he'd be back almost at once. Shall 
I get you anything after your journey, sir? 

Brooker. No, thank you. Well, just a cup 
of tea, if you'll be so good. 

(Exit Viccars at back.) 



act i THE PHYSICIAN 3 

Brooker {sitting dow?i, catches sight of 
Amphiel's face as he looks up furtively from his 
book). I beg pardon, my name is Brooker — 
Dr. Brooker of Folkestone. I've had the pleas- 
ure of meeting you somewhere ? 

Amphiel {with slight embarrassment*). I think 
not — I don't remember you. 

Brooker {still looking at him). I suppose I 
was mistaken. Your face seemed familiar to 
me. {A little pause. ) 

Amphiel. Very interesting place, a doctor's 
consulting room ? 

Brooker. H'm ! — not very — to the doctor. 

Amphiel. This room, for instance. How 
many strange stories and confessions these 
walls must have listened to ! How many men 
and women must have entered that door with 
hope in their hearts, and received their death 
sentence, sitting perhaps where I am sitting 
now ! 

Brooker. Oh, don't speak of us as if we 
were blood-thirsty hanging judges. Say rather 
how many men have entered that door with 
despair in their hearts and gone out cheered 
and comforted ! 

Amphiel. Dr. Carey is marvellously skilful 
in certain — certain nervous diseases, isn't he? 

Brooker. He's marvellously skilful in all 
kinds of diseases. He has made a great repu- 



THE PHYSICIAN 



tation with nerve diseases, simply because this 
is a nervous age. Everybody is suffering from 
neurasthenia to-day. Except myself, thank 
God! 



Viccars re-enters l, with tea on salver, which he 
brings to Dr. Brooker. Amphiel puts book 
on table, open. 

Brooker {looking steadily at Amphiel). 
Surely I — didn't you consult me one Sunday 
evening three or four years ago ? 

Amphiel. No, no, I've never met you. 

{To Viccars.) Dr. Carey hasn't returned, 

{Takes out watch.) I'll call again by-and-by. 

{Exit Amphiel at back rather hurriedly .) 

Viccars {at door looking after him, calling off). 

The door, Thomas. 

{Meantime Brooker has taken up the book 

which Amphiel has put down. He 

looks at the page, raises his eyebrows, 

puts book on table again, leaving it open. ) 

Brooker {taking tea). And how have you 

been all this time, Viccars? 

Viccars. I've kept pretty tolerable, I thank 
you, sir. 

Brooker. And Dr. Carey? 

Viccars. About as usual, sir. 

Brooker. He wrote me rather an urgent 



act i THE PHYSICIAN 5 

letter. I thought perhaps something was 
wrong. (Viccars does not reply. There is a 
short pause.) He has had no trouble, no mis- 
fortune, no loss ? 

Viccars. No, sir. At least, none that it's 
any business of mine to take notice of. 

Brooker. You're right, Viccars. Of course, 
I didn't wish you to speak of Dr. Carey's affairs. 
He's quite well ? 

Viccars. In body, I believe, quite well, sir. 
Though, of course, the journey to Egypt and 
his attendance on the Pasha have fagged him 
a good deal. 

Brooker. You went with him, Viccars? 

Viccars. Yes, sir. I had that honour. Dr. 
Carey waited on the Pasha night and day, 
and I waited on Dr. Carey. It was wonder- 
ful to watch him. 

Brooker. How — wonderful ? 

Viccars. He seemed determined to keep 
the life in the old fellow. I don't know what 
it is about Dr. Carey, but he seems to have 
got that in him — well, I can't describe it — but 
if once Dr. Carey makes up his mind that a 
certain patient shall live, it seems more than 
that patient dare do to die, and its more than 
Death dare do to lay hands on him. 

Brooker. And death did not lay hands on 
the Pasha ? 



6 THE PHYSICIAN act I 

Viccars. No, sir. We pulled the old 
chap through and left him happy, and com- 
paratively rollicking, so to speak, with his four 
wives. I think I heard the carriage. (Look- 
ing out of window.') Yes, here is Dr. Carey. 
(Crossing to door at back.) 

Viccars opens door. Dr. Carey enters. 

(Exit Viccars.) 
(Dr. Lewin Carey is a man of fro?n 
forty-five to fifty- He has a strong 
intellectual face ; sensitive ?nobile fea- 
tures, with frequently changing play of 
humour and melancholy ; kind penetra- 
ting eyes; a tender caressing voice; 
calm, restrained, professional man- 
ner. He comes very affectionately to 
Brooker, takes his hand, holds it 
some moments without speaking.) 

Dr. C. My dear fellow, I knew you'd come. 
Brooker. Why, of course. I didn't under- 
stand your letter. 

Dr. C. I want to consult you about myself. 
(Brooker looks astonished. Dr. Carey 
motions him to a seat. During the 
following scene Brooker is seated. 
Dr. Carey sometimes sits, sometimes 
stands, sometimes walks about.) 



act I THE PHYSICIAN 7 

Brooker. What's the matter ? 

Dr. C. Everything. Nothing. You'll call 
it neurasthenia, and you'll give me some 
placebo, which I shan't believe in, and which 
I shan't take. 

Brooker. But I'm only a country practi- 
tioner. The best man for nerves is Lewin 
Carey, 39 Cavendish Square. Why don't you 
go to him ? 

Dr. C. I have, but he only laughs at me 
and says: "Physician, heal thyself." That's 
the one thing that rings constantly in my ears 
day and night, "Physician, heal thyself! 
Physician, heal thyself." I can't, Brooker. 

Brooker. Go on. Tell me all. 

Dr. C. My dear old fellow, have patience 
with me ! The last fifteen years, while you've 
been comfortably ploughing and whistling on 
your way amongst rural measles and accouche- 
ments, I've stood here an open receptacle for all 
the nervous diseases of the age to be poured 
into. And the mischief is, Brooker, I'm so sym- 
pathetic, I've caught them all. 

Brooker. You're a little overworked. 

Dr. C. No, it's not that. I'm just at the 
prime of life with a splendid constitution. I'm 
getting to the top of my profession, I'm richer 
than my needs, I'm honoured, feted, envied — 
and yet, by God, Brooker, I don't believe there's 



8 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

in any London slum, or jail, or workhouse, a 
poor wretch with such a horrible despair in his 
heart as I have to-day. 

Brooker. You know the causes of nervous 
breakdown. What past excess is calling on you 
for payment? 

Dr. C. My youth was pretty much about 
the average. I don't pretend to justify it. I 
don't pretend to regret it. If any past excess is 
calling on me for payment now, it's excess of 
work rather than excess of pleasure. 

Brooker. And since your youth? {Pause.) 
Is there any woman in this business, Carey? 

Dr. C. I've had an attachment for some 
years past. I won't tell you her name, though 
you can easily learn if you care to inquire. 
Seven years ago I met one of the most beautiful 
women in London. She had married a black- 
guard, who neglected her. And certainly she 
had as much excuse as ever a woman had for 
forming other ties. Her husband has lived 
abroad for years, and practically doesn't exist. 
I go out very little, as you know, but she goes 
a great deal into society. 

Brooker. And what has society said to 
this? 

Dr. C. Society, with its perfect good na- 
ture, its perfect tact and sympathy with a genu- 
ine attachment such as ours, has nodded and 



act i THE PHYSICIAN 9 

smiled, and whispered no doubt, but has never 
openly said one word against her. 

Brooker. This attachment — does it con- 
tinue? 

Dr. C. No. For some time I have felt that 
she has cared for me less and less. When I 
came back from Egypt a month ago I found a 
letter from her, breaking it off. 

Brooker. And you've not seen her? 

Dr. C. No, she's travelling abroad. I've 
written to her several times begging her to 
return, but she hasn't replied. 

Brooker. And so you're steadily breaking 
your heart for this woman? 

Dr. C. I miss her terribly — hourly. She 
was such a delightful companion. But though 
I've loved her deeply, and she has loved me — 
after a fashion — I've never rested in her love. 
I've always known her to be a coquette — a fla- 
ming, intellectual coquette — whose very attrac- 
tions make it impossible for her to be constant. 
Good God, Brooker ! are any of us constant to 
anybody, or to anything, or to ourselves — even 
our worst selves? Don't let me maunder any 
more about her. She isn't the matter with me — 
or if she is, she's not all the matter with me. I 
go deeper than that. 

Brooker. What is the matter with you? 

Dr. C. I tell you I've caught the disease 



10 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

of our time, of our society, of our civilisa- 
tion. 

Brooker. What's that. 

Dr. C. Middle age. Disillusionment. My 
youth's gone. My beliefs are gone. I enjoy 
nothing. I believe in nothing. 

Brooker. There's no cure for lost youth, 
I'm afraid. But for lost belief 

Dr. C. The cure for that is to turn church- 
warden and go round with the plate on Sundays, 
I suppose. 

Brooker. Don't sneer at us poor fools who 
do still believe in something. 

Dr. C. Sneer at you ! I envy you. Belief ! 
That's the placebo I want. That would cure 
me. 

Brooker. Don't you believe in your work? 

Dr. C. My work means nothing to me. 
Success means nothing to me. I cure people 
with a grin and a sneer. I keep on asking my- 
self, "To what end? To what end?" 

Brooker. Come and dress, let's get an early 
dinner and go to a music hall. 

Dr. C. That's your placebo, is it? 

Brooker. Surely, Carey, you must know 
there's nothing the matter with you. 

Dr. C. Don't I tell you there's nothing the 
matter with me, and that I can endure it no 
longer. Brooker, my practice is a very valu- 



act I THE PHYSICIAN 11 

able one. I want you to take it up and carry 
it on. 

Brooker. You're not in earnest ? 

Dr. C. Indeed I am. We'll talk it over at 
dinner. Don't argue with . me, I've made up 
my mind. 

Brooker. And you — what will you do? 

Dr. C. I don't know. 

Brooker. Where will you go? 

Dr. C. I don't know. 

Brooker. Surely you have some plan? 

Dr. C. None in this world, except to walk 
out of that door and let it clang for ever on my 
present self. I want a new impulse, a new out- 
look on life — no, I want a new life itself. I 
may go to India. I'm interested in these chol- 
era experiments. 

Brooker. To what end? 

Dr. C. Ah, to what end? To save life. 
To what end? I can't tell you. But I've still 
got the healing instinct strong within me in 
spite of what I've told you ; if any poor devil 
suffering from some mortal disease were to come 
in at that door and ask me to help him, I should 
fling myself heart and soul into his case and 
fight like a tiger to pull him through. And all 
the time my grinning, sneering, second self 
would be standing beside me and asking me 
"To what end? To what end?" {With a ges- 



12 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

ture of weariness and despair. ) Let me get out 
of this, Brooker. Come in as soon as you can 
and set me free. 

Enter Viccars at back, with lady's visiting card on 
tray, which he brings to Dr. Carey. Dr. 
Carey takes card, shows great delight. 

Viccars. Lady is waiting in the next room, 
sir. ( Going off at back. ) 

Dr. C. (in a low tone to Brooker, showing 
great feeling'). It's she. She has come back to 
me ! 

Brooker. I've a letter or two to write. 
Perhaps Viccars will show me to my room. 
Viccars (at door at back). This way, sir. 

(Exit. ) 
Dr. C. (with great feeling). I was wrong, 
Brooker. I care for her more than I know. 
It's her absence that has ailed me. I shall be 
well now. 

(Brooker wrings Carey's hand with 
great cordiality, and exit at back. 
Dr. Carey goes to door l., opens it.) 
Dr. C. Val ! 

Enter door at back Lady Valerie Camville, a 
handsome woman about thirty-three ; bright red 
hair, large brown eyes with a merry twinkle ; 



act i THE PHYSICIAN 13 

high forehead ; rather large mouth with great 
expression; a face with beauty , intellectuality, 
and humour, without spirituality. Dr. Carey 
goes to her with the utmost tenderness and re- 
spect ', hisses her hand softly two or three times, 
then holds it tenderly, looking at her with great 
affection. 

Dr. C. You got my letters ? 

Lady V. Yes. ( Withdraws her hand. ) You 
begged me at least to see you and say "Good- 
bye." Your last letter was so piteous, I couldn't 
help coming. {Holding out hand in the frankest 
way. ) Good-bye. 

Dr. C. {cut to the quick). You've not come 
to say that? {Doesn't take her hand.) 

Lady V. Indeed I have. If you remember 
we made a compact at the beginning of our 
friendship 

Dr. C. Our friendship! We were friends, 
were we not ? 

Lady V. We were very good friends indeed, 
and we very sensibly agreed that the mo- 
ment we began to feel the least little bit tired of 
each other, the moment boredom supervened, 
we would have the courage to own the truth 
and — part. 

(Again offering hand, which he doesn't take.) 

Dr. C. (piteously). Are you tired of me, 
Val? 



14 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

Lady V. Not at the present moment. Al- 
together, I think you bear the test of constant 
companionship better than most men would. 
{Smiling at him.) Still, my dear Lewin, don't 
let us blink the horrible fact that boredom has 
supervened. That Sunday at Henley last year ! 

Dr. C. Oh, a wet English Sunday ! 

Lady V. No amount of British climate or 
British Sunday can excuse a man for treating a 
woman as if she had been married to him for a 
dozen years ! Besides, boredom has supervened 
on other occasions. 

Dr. C. {jealously). Val — you've not — you've 
not met any one else ? 

Lady V. Ah ! you shouldn't ask me that ! 

Dr. C. Why not ? 

Lady V. Because you know I should tell 
the biggest of big fibs, rather than give you 
pain. 

Dr. C. Then you have ? 

Lady V. No. I've only thought matters 
over. {Again offering hand.) Good-bye. 

Dr. C. I can't say it. What reason is there 
for us to part ? 

Lady V. Our friendship must end some day 
and somehow. Think. How would you wish 
it to end ? In a yawn ? In a squabble ? In a 
scandal ? 

Dr. C. I should wish it to end in — death. 



act i THE PHYSICIAN 15 

Lady V. Would you ? Now that's the very 
last way in which I should wish it to end. At 
least, if it's my death you mean. 

Dr. C. Why not the scandal? 

Lady V. {looks at him questioningly). You'd 
be obliged to marry me ! 

Dr. C. Obliged ? Dare you face it ? 

Lady V. Gracious, no ! To sink into social 
extinction in a bog of newspaper mud ! No, 
trust me, this is our fine artistic moment for 
bidding each other adieu. We part with the 
pleasantest memories of the past, with the best 
wishes for the future, and with just the merest 
shade of regret {looks at him roguishly, sighs) \ at 
least, on my side. 

Dr. C. On your side there will be the 
merest shade of regret. On my side there will 
be despair. 

Lady V. And so there should be ! Anything 
less than despair for some months, or at least 
weeks, would be uncomplimentary to me. 

Dr. C. {coming to her passionately). Val, 
don't torture me ! I can't let you go. {About 
to clasp her.) 

Lady V. {shaking her head, warning hitn off 
with her forefinger). I leave for Scotland to- 
night. 

Dr. C. Scotland ! What for ? 

Lady V. To escape boredom. I see it still 



16 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

hovering, ready to close impenetrably round us 
the moment we take up our old lives. 

Dr. C. Why should we take up our old 
lives ? Val, take up a new life with me from 
to-day — from this moment. 

Lady V. New life ! How? Where? 

Dr. C. Anywhere ! I'm leaving London, 
giving up my practice 

Lady V. My dear Lewin, what strange freak 
is this ? 

Dr. C. It's no freak. If I stay in London I 
shall come to some miserable end. I shall 
either go mad, or commit suicide, or become 
a fashionable London physician. I don't want 
to do either. I've got thirty good years of life 
in front of me. 

Lady V. And how do you propose to spend 
them? 

Dr. C. In work. In duty. 

Lady V. Duty? H'm! That's some article 
for the consumption of the great middle classes, 
isn't it ? Like the things they get at Whiteley's 
and the Stores. I'm sure it isn't for the elect — 
for you and me. What work? What duty? 

Dr. C. I should like to go to India and 
thoroughly work out these cholera experiments. 

Lady V. And to boredom add ghastliness. 
I don't want to go microbe-hunting in India. I 
like big game. 



act I THE PHYSICIAN 17 

Dr. C. Very well. We'll travel, go where 
you please, do what you please. Only (very 
piteous If) don't leave me, Val. These last few 
weeks since you've been away I've had a horri- 
ble time. I couldn't tell what ailed me. When 
I knew that you had come back, my heart began 
to beat again. My hand trembled when I took 
your card just now, and when you came into the 
room, didn't you see, I could scarcely speak for 

joy ? 

Lady V. (a little touched). My poor Lewin, 
I didn't know you cared so much for me. 

Dr. C. I didn't know it myself till I had 
lost you. Val, come back to me, I cling to 
you! You are all I have in the world! Take 
me, do what you please with me ! Make me at 
least believe in you! What is it you want? Is 
it love? I'll give you all I have to the last drain 
of my heart. Is it marriage? I'll face the dis- 
grace with you, shelter you from it so far as I 
can. Val, I offer you my heart and my name 
with all the respect and worship of my nature. 
(Long pause.) What do you say? 

(She has listened with great attention and 
is a little moved by his passionate plead- 
ing, stands as if undecided, then looks 
at him pityingly, sighs, speaks in a 
firm matter-of-fact, but not unkind 
tone.) 
c 



18 THE PHYSICIAN act I 

Lady V. I'm very sorry. But it must be 
adieu — and now. 

Dr. C. Don't leave me, Val. 
Lady V. I must be in Scotland to-morrow 
morning, and I must catch the train. 
Dr. C. Don't leave me, Val. 
Lady V. What a heavenly attitude of mel- 
ancholy you have ! 

Dr. C. Don't leave me, Val. 
Lady V. Alas, poor dear ! I must ! {Blows 
him a kiss.) Good-bye. {Exit l. ) 

{She closes the door after her. He stands, 
looks after her, his hands tightly clasped 
in front of him; his features hardening, 
his eyes fixed, his whole attitude one of 
great me?ital anguish changing into de- 
spair. A long pause. Viccars sloiuly 
and timidly opens door at back and 
looks in.) 
Viccars. Are you engaged, sir ? 
Dr. C. {relaxing his strained attitude with an 
effort, speaking in an intensely calm tone'). No. 
What is it? 

Viccars {enters, brings in a card on salver). 
A young lady says she appointed to meet her 
father here at half-past five. He hasn't come, 
and she wishes to know if you could see her for 
a few minutes. 



act I THE PHYSICIAN 19 

Dr. C. Show her in. 

(Viccars goes, leaves door open. Dr. 
Carey walks listlessly across the room. 
Re-enter Viccars, at back, showing in 
Edana Hinde, a bright, eager girl, not 
quite twenty, prettily dressed, but a little 
countryfied. ) 
Viccars. Miss Hinde. {Exit Viccars.) 
Edana. I'm so sorry to trouble you. My 
father arranged to meet me here, but he has 
gone to some old bookshops, and I daresay he 
has forgotten all about me. 

Dr. C. Will you be seated? {She sits.) 
What can I do for you? 

Edana. I hardly know how to tell you. You 
won't think it very strange of me — I wanted to 

ask you about somebody else {A pause.) 

Dr. C. Go on. 

Edana (a little embarrassed). His life is so 
valuable. You must have heard his name — 
Mr. Walter Amphiel. 

Dr. C. Amphiel? Amphiel? Oh yes, the 
man who is making all this stir about the tem- 
perance question. 

Edana. He is giving his life to it. 
Dr. C. He is a friend of yours? 
Edana. Yes. {Pause.) I am to be his 
wife. 

Dr. C. And you wish ? 



20 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

Edana. He gives himself to the work night 
and day. He is killing himself for others. 

Dr. C. Then he is unjust to himself and 
to you. 

Edana. Oh, it doesn't matter for me. But 
I want his life to be spared. 

Dr. C. And you wish me to see him and 
persuade him to give it up? 

Edana. Oh no, he wouldn't give up the 
work ! And I wouldn't have him ! We have 
both put our hands to the plough. And {very 
glowingly} I wish nothing better for either of us 
than to die for our cause if need were. {He is 
looking at her with interest and a little astonish- 
ment.') I beg pardon, you don't understand 
me. 

Dr. C. I don't quite understand what you 
wish me to do. 

Edana. I want you to see him and advise 
him how to take care of his health. 

Dr. C. Certainly. Send him to me to- 
morrow morning. 

Edana. He won't come. He has a great 
dislike to seeing doctors, and when I beg him 
he only smiles at me, and says he shall live long 
enough. But I can see such a change in him 
the last few months. He grows paler and thin- 
ner, and more careworn. Couldn't you come 
to him? 



act I THE PHYSICIAN 21 

Dr. C. Where? 

Edana. We live at Fontleas, near Buxen- 
ham. 

Dr. C. Is he there now ? 

Edana. No. He is passing through London 
to-day on his way to the Temperance Congress 
at Southampton to-morrow. Couldn't you come 
to Fontleas, unknown to him, and stay a day or 
two and watch him, and find out all about him, 
and tell me what to do ? 

Dr. C. It would be very unusual. 

Edana. Would it be impossible? 

Dr. C. You are very much concerned for 
him. 

Edana. Oh, I can't tell you how much ! He 
is so good, and gentle, and unselfish ! He came 
into a large fortune last year. He is giving it 
all away to the cause. Isn't it great of him to 
give up everything for others ? 

Dr. C. What made you come to me ? 

Edana. We've been reading about your 
journey to Egypt and how you saved the Pasha's 
life. Yours must be splendid work, too ! I've 
often thought that if I were a man I should like 
to be a doctor. {She sees Dr. Carey is watching 
her, stops suddenly, confused.} I beg your pardon. 
Could you come to Fontleas ? 

Dr. C. Certainly I could come. I come to 
Buxenham occasionally. I send some of my 



22 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

patients there for the waters. By the way, isn't 
there a well or a spring at Fontleas ? 

Edana. Yes, a holy well. You've heard 
of it? 

Dr. C. I think I have. Saint — Saint 

Edana. Saint Edana' s well. It had great 
healing properties in the middle ages. Pilgrims 
used to come there from all parts, and thou- 
sands were cured by drinking its waters. 

Dr. C. In the middle ages. And now they 
have come to me. 

Edana. Oh, we've had some cures in this 
century. 

Dr. C. Indeed. 

Edana. My father is Vicar of Fontleas, and 
he's writing a life of Saint Edana. 

Dr. C. Saint Edana ! It's an uncommon 
name. 

Edana. I was named after her. 

Dr. C. Saint Edana ! It's a pretty name. 

(A pause. .) 

Edana {rising). I'm taking up your valuable 
time 

Dr. C. When will Mr. Amphiel be at 
Fontleas ? 

Edana. He lives there. But he's often 
away for weeks together on temperance work. 
I could let you know. Will you come and see 
him ? 



act i THE PHYSICIAN 23 

Dr. C. If there is anything I can do 



Edana. Then you will come ! How kind of 
you ! But I'm sure when you know him you'll 
think his life worth all your care. 

Dr. C. If he is dear to you I'm sure it 
must be. 

Enter Viccars at back, showing in the Reverend 
Peregrine Hinde, a very quaint old country 
clergyman, rather over sixty, with very bright 
eyes, pleasant features, indicating a mixture of 
shrewdness and simplicity. He has a habit of 
humming little snatches of sacred tunes to him- 
self, and punctuates nearly every sentence with 
a hearty little chuckle at his own small wit. He 
carries two or three large old volumes under his 
arm. 

Viccars {announcing'). Mr. Hinde. 

{Exit Viccars.) 

Rev. P. {comes up to Dr. Carey, humming a 
little snatch, leaves off abruptly). Dr. Carey ? 
(Dr. Carey bows.) I've been with the saints 
all the afternoon. ( Tapping the books under his 
arm. ) And in their society I forgot all about 
you. I hope you'll excuse me. 

Dr. C. Certainly. From the little I know 
of the saints I'm sure they must be far more 
agreeable company than I am. 



24 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

Rev. P. Not more agreeable, but say more 
profitable — for a man of my age. You see, I 
may have to meet them in a few years and I 
shouldn't like not to feel quite at home amongst 
them. {Chuckles and hums.} Now, Edana, what 
is to be done about Walter ? 

Edana. Dr. Carey has promised to come to 
Fontleas to see him. 

Rev. P. The poor boy is working himself to 
death in the cause of temperance. Dear me, 
how very intemperate all these good temper- 
ance folks are, aren't they ? Still it's a good 
cause — a sacred cause. I used to take my glass 
of wine and I used to enjoy it. Walter has per- 
suaded me to give it up. I miss it {regretfully}, 
still it's a good cause — a sacred cause. And 
may I ask what your fee will be for coming to 
Fontleas, Dr. Carey ? 

Dr. C. Oh, don't trouble about that, Mr. 
Hinde. 

Rev. P. Oh, but I must. I'm not rich. My 
stipend for doctoring men's souls is two hun- 
dred and forty pounds per annum, or thirteen 
shillings a day. I hope you don't consider doc- 
toring men's bodies is worth more than (a little 
hum} say ten times as much as doctoring their 
souls ? 

Dr. C. That all depends upon the doctor. 
I'll come to Fontleas and see Mr. Amphiel. 



act i THE PHYSICIAN 25 

But we won't say anything about the fee till 
I've done my work. Is there any place at 
Fontleas where I can stay ? 

Rev. P. We can offer you the hospitality of 
the Vicarage. 

Dr. C. You're very kind, but I'm going to 
take a long rest from my practice, and I might 
possibly stay some considerable time. Is there 
a comfortable inn ? 

Rev. P. I'm afraid there isn't. We are all 
such staunch temperance folks at Fontleas that 
we feel bound to make people who drink as 
uncomfortable as we can, don't we, Edana ? 

{Chuckles.) 

Edana. There's Granny Barton's. She has 
one or two very large comfortable rooms. 

Dr. C. What is her address ? 

Edana. The Abbot's Kitchen, Fontleas. 

Dr. C. The Abbot's Kitchen ? 

Rev. P. It was the Abbot's Kitchen, but 
there being no further use for abbots, and no 
further use for good living in Fontleas, it was 
turned into a farmhouse. And now there being 
no further use in England for farms and farm- 
houses, the poor old creature has sold her land 
and lets her rooms to visitors from Buxen- 
ham. 

Edana. She's a dear old soul. 

Rev. P. And she so far sustains the tradi- 



26 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

tions of the spot that she can cook a very good 
dinner. 

Dr. C. (making a note). The Abbot's 
Kitchen. Very well. I'll come to Fontleas 
as soon as I can get away from London. 

(The Rev. Peregrine Hinde takes up his 
books. Edana picks up the book which 
Amphiel has left, glances at the title, 
shows interest, looks at it during the 
following conversation.') 

Dr. C. (touching the books which the Rev. 
Peregrine Hinde is taking up). Your lore is 
very different from mine. 

Rev. P. Yes, so much more interesting. 

Dr. C. Why ? 

Rev. P. Don't you think men's souls are 
more interesting than their bodies? 

Dr. C. I never saw a man's soul. 

Rev. P. I never saw a mother's love, but 
I'm sure it's about the realest thing on this 
side of the grave. 

Edana (who has been looking at the book). 
How very curious ! 

Dr. C. What ? 

Edana This book on Alcoholic Mania. 

Dr. C. Yes, it's interesting. But the author 
rides his theory that drunkenness is a disease 
a little too hard. (Edana continues reading.) 
Miss Hinde tells me you are writing a life of 
Saint Edana. 



act I THE PHYSICIAN 27 

Rev. P. Yes, it's very puzzling. One his- 
tory recounts that she went to Cornwall and 
died there at the age of twenty, the most glori- 
ous visions being vouchsafed to all around her 
as her spirit passed away. 

Dr. C. Ah ! I've been to Cornwall 

Rev. P. But you saw no visions ? No it's 
a rare faculty, and it seems to be growing rarer. 
We who have it are highly favoured. {Chuckles 
and hums.') Another account says that as Saint 
Edana was crossing to Ireland at the age of 
fifty, the ship was overtaken in a storm. And 
while the mariners cursed and blasphemed, she 
prayed that her life alone might be taken and 
all the others spared to repent. And so it was. 

Dr. C. And another history recounts ? 

Rev. P That she died full of good works at 
the age of ninety on the spot where my vicarage 
now stands. 

Dr. C. And which history do you believe ? 

Rev. P. All three. {Hums and chuckles.') 
You see, so many people nowadays believe in 
nothing at all, it does no harm to have a few 
old-fashioned folks like myself, who believe a 
great deal too much, believe everything that's 
told them — so long as it's beautiful and help- 
ful ! Good-bye, Dr. Carey. Come, Edana ! 

{Exit at back, humming and chuckling, his 
books under his arm. ) 



28 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

Edana {puts dow7i book}. Then we shall see 
you at Fontleas ? 

Dr. C. In about a week. {Shaking hands.') 
Edana. Thank you ! Thank you ! Oh, if 

you can give him health and strength 

{Her eyes fill with tears. Exit at back 
hurriedly. Dr. Carey stands looking 
after her for some moments as if deeply 
interested; comes down stage. ) 

Brooker enters at the open door. 

Dr. C. Brooker, make haste and come into 
my practice. I want to get away. 

Brooker. Where ? 

Dr. C. Did you see that girl who went out ? 
Her lover is ill — dying, she says. She wants 
me to come and see him. 

Brooker. And you're going. 

Dr. C. Why not? Why not there as well 
as anywhere ? Why not that as well as any- 
thing else ? 

Brooker. You mean to give up this splen- 
did practice, your position, your career 

Dr. C. I tell you I can't stay here, espe- 
cially after to-day. Besides, this man Amphiel 
has a great mission. 

Brooker. Mission ? 

Dr. C. He's this Walter Amphiel, the 



act i THE PHYSICIAN 29 

man who is organising the temperance move- 
ment. 

Brooker. And do you agree with that kind 
of fanaticism ? 

Dr. C. Is it fanaticism ? The girl's face 
glowed like a live coal when she spoke of her 
cause and her lover. How she loves the fel- 
low ! Brooker, its better to be a fanatic than 
a cynic. 

Brooker. It's better still to be neither. 
It's better to be a good common-sense citizen 
and pay your rates and taxes. 

Dr. C. No, it isn't. Good-common sense 
citizens when they die — well, they think they 
go to heaven or hell, but they only go to 
limbo — and I should like to go to heaven or 
hell ; the latter for preference, I think, because 
it's only when we suffer, as I'm suffering now, 
that we can make sure that we're alive. By the 
way, did you take down that book of Fuller's on 
Alcoholic Mania ? {Pointing to book on tab/e.) 

Brooker. No, I found a young fellow here 
reading it. I thought I remembered his face — 
in fact, I'm sure I did. He came to me some 
three or four years ago. He puzzled me. I 
fancied at the time, from a hint that he 
dropped, that he'd been drinking heavily. 

Re-enter Viccars at back. 



30 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

Viccars. A gentleman to consult you, sir. 
He won't give his name. 

Dr. C. Show him in. {Exit Viccars at 
back. ) 

Brooker {taking out watch). It's almost 
time to dress for dinner. You said nothing 
more about 

Dr. C. She only came to say "good-bye." 
She has said it. {A very bitter laugh.) Brooker, 
I'll come with you to a music hall to-night. 

Re-enter Viccars, l., showing in Walter Am- 
phiel, who ?neets Brooker as he is going out. 
Amphiel again shows slight recognition, and 
avoids looking at Brooker. Brooker bows 
slightly. ) 

{Exit Brooker and Viccars at back.) 

Amphiel. Dr. Carey, I've come on a curious 
errand. 

(Dr. Carey points to a chair, looks rather 
fixedly at Amphiel, who remains stand- 
ing with a somewhat embarrassed, shifty 
manner. Dr. Carey again points to 
chair. Amphiel sits. Dr. Carey sits.) 
Dr. C. What can I do for you ? 
Amphiel. Nothing for myself. I'm in ex- 
cellent health, as you can see. 

( With a smile. ) 
Dr. C. Go on. 



act I THE PHYSICIAN 31 

Amphiel. I've come to ask your advice 
about a very dear friend of mine — almost my 
brother. I've been staying with him lately, and 
to my horror I discovered that he gives way to 
periodical fits of drunkenness. I tried to per- 
suade him to come to you, but he was ashamed. 
I want you to advise me about him. 

Dr. C. I couldn't advise you without seeing 
him. I don't know his constitution or how far 
it is impaired. 

Amphiel. Oh, I don't think there is any 
serious damage done. And I want you to give 
me some general rules for his guidance. Drunk- 
enness is really a disease, isn't it ? 

Dr. C. All vice is disease. All evil habits 
are the exact expression of some physical de- 
rangement. An evil thought signifies that the 
brain is to that extent disordered, the same as 
an attack of indigestion signifies that the stom- 
ach is to that extent disorded. 

Amphiel. But we can't help our thoughts ! 
My friend can't help these fits of drunkenness. 
I'm sure he can't ! Surely you can advise me 
what he ought to do ? 

Dr. C. How often do these outbreaks occur? 

Amphiel. Sometimes every month or two — 
sometimes he manages to control himself for 
three or four months. Then suddenly he tells 
me he has this irresistible craving for drink — 



32 THE PHYSICIAN act i 

it's so overwhelming that he'd lie, or steal, or 
murder almost to get it. Then he goes away, 
he tells me, hides from his friends, and gives 
way to drink and — other dissipation — at least, 
so I gathered. When the fit is over he spends 
a few awful days in anguish and remorse, and 
then, when he is sufficiently recovered, he goes 
back to his home. 

Dr. C. And nobody suspects him? 

Amphiel. Nobody. Except myself. And I 
only found it out by the merest accident. 

Dr. C. What is his age ? 

Amphiel {slight hesitation). Thirty-one. 

Dr. C. How long has he been subject to 
these outbreaks ? 

Amphiel. About five or six years. 

Dr. C. Did they come on gradually from 
constant and little drinking ? Or did they be- 
gin after some one definite cause, such as an 
illness, a shock, a bereavement, or an accident? 
How did they originate ? 

Amphiel {after a longish pause). He told me 
all. He ruined a girl near to his home. She 
brought his child to her father and then left her 
home again, went from worse to worse, and 
drifted away nobody knows where. Her mother 
died from the shame and grief and my friend 
drank to drown his remorse. Ever since then, 
at intervals, he has had these outbreaks. 



act I THE PHYSICIAN 33 

Dr. C. What is his occupation ? 

Amphiel {hesitates). He — he 

Dr. C. (rising). You had better send your 
friend to some good physician. 

Amphiel (rising). But can't you tell me 
what to do with him? Would a voyage to 
India benefit him ? 

Dr. C. I couldn't say. Send him to some 
good physician. What is he afraid of ? A 
physician knows nothing of shame. Any one 
part of this wonderful machine that gets out 
of order is just the same 'as another to him. 
His only care is to heal. Come, now (with 
great kindness and inviting Amphiel's confidence), 
if it were yourself, I'm sure you wouldn't hesi- 
tate to trust me? 

(Amphiel responds with a move?nent to- 
wards Dr. Carey as if about to give 
Dr. Carey all his confidence, then sud- 
denly checks himself and shows some 
embarrassment. ) 

Amphiel. My friend is in a position of great 
responsibility. I mustn't betray him without 
first consulting him. ( Takes out purse. ) The fee? 

Dr. C. There is no fee. 

Amphiel. But I 

Dr. C. There is no fee till I have advised 
your friend. Good-day Mr. — I didn't catch 
your name 



34 THE PHYSICIAN act I 

Amphiel. Mr. — a — Williams. 

Dr. C. Mr. — a— Williams. {Rings bell.) 

Amphiel {going, turns). It is a disease, isn't 
it? I may tell him that? He can't help these 
outbreaks ? 

Dr. C. (dryly, coldly, a little grimly). Cer- 
tainly it is a disease. But don't let your friend 
lay the nattering unction to his soul that he 
can't help it, for that means his ruin. It is a 
disease, and the worse he has it the more he 
must help it. Has he a wife ? 

Amphiel. No. But he's engaged to the 
dearest, most innocent girl — that's the mad- 
ness of it for him. 

Dr. C. It may one day be the madness of 
it for her. Won't the thought of her save him? 

Amphiel. It has kept him from the worse — 
at times. 

Dr. C. {very significantly). Let it keep him 
from the worse — always. ( Viccars appears at 
door at back.) The door, Viccars. 

(Exit Viccars. Amphiel goes out slowly, 
irresolutely, troubled ; looks back at 
Dr. Carey as he goes off. Doctor 
stands looking after him.) 

Rather slow Curtain. 

(Three months pass between Acts I. and II.) 



o 



a..o ^ 













/vV 






\ 
\ 

o * 



'-._'$= 



^ V 



ACT II 

Scene — St. Edana's Well and Church at 
Fontleas 

The churchyard wall, an irregular crumbling mass of 
weather-beaten stone and brick, runs across the stage 
diagonally, from down stage r. to up stage l. A 
large carved slab of stone in the wall forms the back 
of the well, which is in the centre of the stage ; the 
water running from the slab forms a pool which is 
surrounded by a low thick wall of crumbling masonry 
about two feet high and very thick. A weeping 
willow springs from the pool and hangs over the 
well. On the slab is carved the inscription in letters 
which are worn and scarcely decipherable, ' « Whoso- 
ever drinketh of this water shall thirst again, but 
whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give 
him shall never thirst." There is a wicket gate i?i 
the wall at back just to r. of well, and another 
wicket gate at extreme comer l. , both of these giving 
glimpses of landscape in evening light. A few steps 
lead up to the wicket gate r. Down stage r. the 
trunk of an old ehn tree with a seat running round 
it. On the l. of the stage going up to the corner 

(36) 



ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 37 

wicket gate is the Church of St. Edana, a very 
simple early English building with a low roof and 
cavered with ivy. In the church a small door, and 
a small window, formerly the lepers'' window, such 
as is seen in many old churches. 

Time : a summer Sunday evening. 

Discover Dr. Carey and Edana seated on the 
well. Edana is in a dress of soft white muslin. 

Dr. C. And it was at this well that Saint 
Edana worked her most wonderful cures. 
What diseases did she treat ? 

Edana. All kinds of diseases. 

Dr. C. Like a patent medicine. 

Edana. Yes — and like Nature. 

Dr. C. Nature's a sad bungler. 

Edana. No ! No ! 

Dr. C. Yes ! Yes ! She's terribly careless 
and terribly cruel. 

Edana. No ! No ! I won't have you 
slander your mother. 

Dr. C. Tell me some more about Saint 
Edana. 

Edana. She is said to have cured many 
lepers. You see that little round window ? 
That was the lepers' window in the old time. 
They weren't allowed to mix with the congre- 
gation, and so they used to come there and join 
in the services from outside. 



38 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

Dr. C. The lepers' window ! That was my 
window. 

Edana. Yes, I saw you looking through it 
this morning. Are you coming to church this 
evening ? 

Dr. C. No. I feel my right place is out- 
side — with the lepers. 

Edana. You seem to believe in nothing. 

Dr. C. That's my disease. 

Edana. But surely — surely you believe in 
your work. {He shakes his head and smiles.') 
Then why have you taken so much trouble with 
all my poor people ? 

Dr. C. Mere force of habit. I've got into 
the way of curing people just as some folks get 
into the way of giving coppers to beggars. It 
relieves our feelings, but it's a very bad habit. 

Edana. A bad habit to give life ? A bad 
habit to relieve pain? Oh, I won't have you 
speak like this. I'm sure life is good. It's 
good to have it ! It's good to give it ! It is ! 
It is ! I don't understand you. 

Dr. C. How is that. 

Edana. You're so kind and gentle to every- 
body, and so sad and bitter against everything. 
I've often thought I'd ask you to tell me your 
history. You've had some great sorrow ? {She 
looks at him very sympathetically — he assents. ) 
Ah ! {She makes a sympathetic gesture towards 



act ii THE PHYSICIAN 39 

him, looks at him with real sympathy.*) But you'll 
get over it — you'll conquer it. 

Dr. C. I have conquered it. But it has left 
me hopeless. My youth lies all behind me. I'm 
alone in the world. I'm like a traveller who 
turns in to rest at an inn for an hour or two — 
when I leave you and go out to take up my 
journey again, I see thirty years of life in front 
of me. The shadow lies upon all of them. 

Edana. Oh, I'm sorry for you! No, I'm 
not! You're young yet! It's a shame — it's a 
shame to despair ! with all your gifts ! and just 
in the prime of life. 

Dr. C. Go on ! Go on ! 

Edana. Oh, If I could show you your 
future as I see it ! Can't you see how splendid 
it might be ! You have the knowledge and the 
skill ! You are loved and believed in ! You've 
only to put your hand to it and to do it. 

Dr. C. Go on ! Go on ! 

Edana. Oh, I wish I had your power ! I 
wish I could make people well and glad ! I wish 
I could give back a dying wife to her husband, 
or a dying child to its mother. Oh, I must 
make you do it. Do you hear ? You must go 
back to London and take up your work ! You 
mustn't waste your time here ! You must 
go ! 

Dr. C. Don't send me away — at least, not 



40 THE PHYSICIAN ACT II 

yet. Let me stay in my half-way house for a 
little while longer and then perhaps by-and-by 
I may feel stronger to go on my journey. Be- 
sides, you forget, I came to Fontleas for a pur- 
pose. 

Edana. To cure Mr. Amphiel — I can't 
think why he stays away so long. 

Dr. C. You've not heard from him lately ? 

Edana. Not for the last fortnight. 

Dr. C. And then he was at Genoa ? 

Edana. Yes, and wrote he should most 
likely take the first boat back. I wish he had 
stayed at Fontleas to see you. 

Dr. C. He left the very day before I came, 
didn't he? 

Edana. Yes. My father happened to say 
you were coming and that started him away. I 
told you he dislikes to see doctors. 

Dr. C. But he says the long voyage has 
restored him ? 

Edana {shakes her head). He says so. He 
will never own to be ill. But I fear — oh, my 
instinct tells me he is not better — that he never 
will be better. 

Dr. C. Why do you fear that ? 

Edana. I don't know. For the last two 
years he has been growing gradually worse — 
I'm sure of it — I can't shut my eyes to it. If 
he should die ! 



act II THE PHYSICIAN 41 

Dr. C. You love him very much ? 

(She looks at him. He turns away and 
shows pain. ) 

Edana. You will stay at Fontleas, won't 
you, till you've cured him ? I have such faith 
in you. 

Dr. C. Have you? 

Edana. I've watched you with my poor 
people. I don't know what it is — you are so 
different from most doctors. Tell me — there is 
something strange about you — something al- 
most miraculous? 

Dr. C. {shakes his head, smiies). No. Noth- 
ing more miraculous than the everyday per- 
petual miracle of the power of the mind, will, 
soul, spirit — call it what you like — over the 
body. We none of us understand it. It's 
the very mystery of life itself. And when a 
case interests me I can't leave it. I feel 
ready to give part of my own life to my 
patient. 

Edana. Suppose Mr. Amphiel's case inter- 
ested you ? 

Dr. C. Then I would give up myself en- 
tirely to him if 

Edana. If what ? 

Dr. C. If in return you would heal me. 

Edana. What do you mean ? 

Dr. C. I've gone astray. I've lost my clue. 



42 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

When I came here three months ago I had no 
faith, no hope, no wish to live. The night 
before I left town I had almost decided to 
end it. 

Edana. Ah, no. 

Dr. C. Yes. It was the thought of you that 
kept me from it, the thought that I might be of 
some little use and help to you. Since I've 
been here with you I have gradually found 
my faith returning to me. I begin to believe 
again. Ah ! its true, this power that one soul 
has over another. Don't turn away from me ! 
Heal me ! 

Edana. Heal you ! I heal you, the great 
London physician ! What can I heal you 
of? 

Dr. C. My blindness ! my darkness ! You 
have the wisdom of life for me. You can give 
me back my youth, my faith. You can make 
me believe in myself, in my work — you can put 
together for me all the broken pieces of this 
puzzle of a world. Oh ! it's wise to believe ! 
It's wise to love ! Heal me ! 

(S/ie goes and sits on the well. ) 

Edana. The country people say that if you 
look long enough into the well you can see 
Saint Edana's image in the waters. 

Dr. C. {goes and looks down.) I can see her ! 
She is in white ! I believe in her powers. 



ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 43 

(Edana drazvs back.} Give me one cup of 
water from her well. 

(Edana looks at him, then goes and Jills the 
stone cup and gives it to him. Dr. 
Carey takes the cup and drinks.} 

As he is drinking very reverently Lady Valerie, 
very handsomely dressed, enters at the wicket 
gate r. and comes down. 

Lady V. How d'ye do ? 

Dr. C. How d'ye do ? (Bowing.*) 

Lady V. I've interrupted a tete-a-tete. I'm 
so sorry. (Glancing at Edana.) Perhaps your 
friend will forgive me. 

Dr. C. (introducing). Miss Hinde — Lady 
Valerie Camville. 

Lady V. (shaking hands with Edana). How 
do you do ? We've been terribly concerned in 
town about Dr. Carey. We lost him suddenly, 
and the wildest rumours have been afloat. So, 
as I was staying at Buxenham, I thought I'd 
drive over and learn the truth. (To Dr. Carey, 
glancing at Edana.) I've brought you a message 
from a friend of yours. 

Edana. It's a little chilly, I'll step over to 
the Vicarage and get my shawl. 

(Exit Edana, r.) 

Lady V. (looking after her). Lewin, I think 
she's charming. 



44 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

Dr. C. I scarcely expected to see you in 
Fontleas. 

Lady V. Evidently not. Or I'm sure you 
wouldn't have been so ungallant as to choose 
the very moment of my arrival for making love 
to another woman. 

Dr. C. You are mistaken. I was not mak- 
ing love to Miss Hinde. 

Lady V. Oh, my dear Lewin, I heard you 
as I came along ; no woman who has been really 
loved ever mistakes that accent. You forget 
that you have piped that same tune to me. 

Dr. C. No, not that tune. 

Lady V. Yes, that same tune. It's always 
the same, like a bullfinch's ditty. There are 
only three notes in it — but oh, what music ! 

Dr. C. Miss Hinde is engaged to Mr. 
Walter Amphiel, and is devotedly attached to 
him. 

Lady V. Is she ? Then why pipe to her if 
she won't dance ? Why waste your music on 
her when I should be rather glad to hear a note 
or two of the old tune ? 

Dr. C. What has brought you to Fontleas? 

Lady V. I've been bored. I've had a hor- 
rible whiff of middle-age the last few weeks. 

Dr. C. You ! Impossible ! 

Lady V. I smell autumn — I scent it from 
afar. I ask myself how many years shall I have 



act II THE PHYSICIAN 45 

a man for my willing, devoted slave? How 
many more years shall I be able by putting on 
my winningest airs and graces to extract some 
sort of homage from him? How many more 
years shall I have to mope, and wither, and 
remember, and attend church regularly? Oh, 
my God! Lewin, it never can be worth while for 
a woman to live one moment after she has 
ceased to be loved. (He laughs a little, bitter, 
amused laugh; she breaks out rather fiercely.') And 
you men have the laugh of us! Age doesn't 
wither you or stale your insolent, victorious, 
self-satisfied, smirking, commonplace durability! 
Oh, you brutes, I hate you all, because you're 
warranted to wash and wear for fifty years ! 
(He laughs again.) Don't laugh at me! I'm 
nearly mad! Lewin, I've got another good ten 
years before me to be loved in, haven't I ? At 
least five. Tell me the truth — no, don't — give 
me what love you have to give while I'm attrac- 
tive and worth it, and then — the moment I'm off 
colour — wht — a flash of lightning or an opium 
pill and have done with me ! 

Dr. C. And only three months ago you 
refused the best love I had to offer. Why did 
you do it? You had met somebody else? 

Lady V. Don't ask me! I was soon unde- 
ceived. My dear Lewin, you don't know what 
a charming man you are. But I do, now. 



46 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

Dr. C. Now! 

Lady V. And you're in love with that yard 
and three-quarters of white muslin. It won't 
last, you know. 

Dr. C. I'm not in love with her. (Lady 
Valerie shakes her head.) At least, I may not 
be. I came here jaded, disappointed, heartsick, 
heart-broken. I met her — a pure, bright girl, 
fresh from God's hands 

Lady V. Fresh from where ? 

Dr. C. Oh, some of you do come from there, 
you know ! 

Lady V. Hum! I shouldn't have thought 
it ! But you're a London physician and you 
ought to know. My dear Lewin, you don't 
really believe that stale old legend. 

Dr. C. What stale old legend ? 

Lady V. The legend of Saint Edana : that 
a woman can reform a man, change his char- 
acter, spiritualise him, etherealise him, pure- 
white-muslinise him. 

Dr. C. I've known an instance of it. 

Lady V. Your own. But the process isn't 
complete. You've only known her three months, 
and she has always worn white muslin. You've 
known me six years and I have never worn 
white muslin, or its accompanying inward and 
spiritual graces. 

Dr. C. They wouldn't suit you. 



act ii THE PHYSICIAN 47 

Lady V. Not now perhaps. But I had a 
white muslin period, when I came bright and 
pure and fresh from {with an upward nod) you 
know where — at least the boy who loved me 
thought I did. That was when I was seventeen. 

Dr. C. I can't see you in the character. 

Lady V. Yet I have played it. Really, 
Lewin, in your profession you ought to have 
some knowledge of us and our trade secrets. 
Don't you know what women are ? 

Dr. C. No. I've become a very simple 
greenhorn down here. Tell me, are you all 
alike ? 

Lady V. At heart, yes. We all go through 
the seven ages of women and play our trumpery 
little parts — all of them as artificial and tire- 
some as the French stage ingenue. In a few 
years Miss Hinde will be playing this role. 

Dr. C. She'll never be like you. 

Lady V. No, but she'll be playing this part, 
and playing it — oh, not nearly so well as I do. 

Dr. C. She'll never be like you. You 
women don't even know your own sex. 

Lady V. No ? Perhaps not. But we get 
an occasional glimmer, whereas you men are 
quite in the dark. Oh, why won't you be con- 
tent to know us and take us for what we are ? 

Dr. C. What are you ? 

Lady V. Terrestrial-celestial amphibians. 



48 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

Come ! You're to come back to Buxenham and 
dine with me. 

Dr. C. I'm sorry. I'm going to supper at 
the Vicarage. 

Lady V. To-morrow, then ? 

Dr. C. I fear not. I'm living in the quiet- 
est way 

Lady V. I know. I've been down the lane 
to see that queer old place where you live — 
the Abbot's Kitchen, don't you call it ? Aren't 
you horribly dull ? 

Dr. C. I've been in worse company than 
my own. 

Lady V. Lewin, I'm sorry, terribly sorry 
that I threw you over. I want to hear a note or 
two of the old tune. 

Dr. C. It's too late. {Looking off.) 

Lady V. I can't bear to lose you. Sir 
Francis Dumby's house is to let in Harley 
Street. Come back to London and let it all be 
as it was, except that I shall have learned to 
value you. 

Dr. C. It's too late. {Looking off.) 

Lady V. You can see some white muslin 
amongst the trees. 

Dr. C. Hush! Her father. 

Enter Rev. Peregrine, r. 
Rev. P. Ah, Doctor ! 



act II THE PHYSICIAN 49 

Dr. C. {presenting). Mr. Hinde — Lady 
Valerie Camville. 

Lady V. {bows). I must be getting back to 
Buxenham to dinner. Good-bye, Mr. Hinde. 
I should like to come and see over your church 
some day. 

Rev. P. Delighted, Lady Valerie. We pre- 
fer people who come to worship and to pray, 
or even to contribute to the offertory. Still we 
don't mind showing it to satisfy a reasonable 
curiosity. I'll show you over myself. Come 
any day. 

Lady. V. I will. I'm making a long stay 
in Buxenham. 

Dr. C. A long stay ? 

Lady V. Yes. My hearing is growing a 
little defective. I mean to stay at Buxenham 
to recover one or two lost notes, and you shall 
treat me. My carriage is at the inn — come 
and see me to it. Do you hear ? Come and 
see me to my carriage ! 

{They go off at wicket gate r., Rev. Pere- 
grine follows them up, humming, and 
looks after them.) 

Enter, r., James Hebbings and Louisa Pack, a 
pair of country sweethearts. James has his 
arm very tightly clasped round Louisa's waist 
with a defiant air of proprietorship. 



50 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

James. Evenin', pa' son. 

Rev. P. Good evening, James. You seem 
very happy. 

James (beaming, giggling. Tightly clasping 
her round the waist. Louisa curtseys}. Me and 
Louisa have made up our minds to bring it off. 
That is as soon as we can save up a fi' pound 
note to give us a bit of a start. 

Rev. P. I'm glad to hear it, James. 

Louisa. Jim has been off and on for the 
last eighteen months, and I thought it was 
time for him to toe the mark. 

James. Well, Loo, I have toed the mark, 
like a man. Only in my judgment nobody 
ought to get married under a fi' pound note. 
In case of accidents, eh, pa'son. 

Rev. P. I commend your prudence, James. 
And, James, don't you think it would look 
prettier if you were to give your arm to 
Louisa ? 

James (blankly). What for? I be going to 
be married to her, and if I bain't to put my 
arm round her waist, what be I to do ? 

Rev. P. I wouldn't, James — in public. 

James (takes his arm away very reluctantly). 
I don't see as there's anything unreasonable 
about it. And it's allays been the way of 
courting in this parish. 

Rev. P. It is the way of courting in a 



act II THE PHYSICIAN 51 

great many parishes, still it is not a choice way 
of courting in any parish. Now, allow me. 
{Disengaging Louisa from James.) Observe 
James, — this is how you were courting. 

{Putting his arm round Louisa as James 
had done.) 
Louisa {giggling). Don't 'ee, pa'son. 
Rev. P. It is not an elegant attitude, 
James. 

Loutsa. Don't 'ee, pa'son. {Giggling.) 
Rev. P. It is only an object lesson, Louisa. 
Now James, when I go courting again — I'm 
sixty-seven {sighs) this is the way I shall walk 
with my lady-love. Take my arm, Louisa. 
Louisa. Oh, pa'son. 

(Rev. Peregrine Hinde walks her up 
and down a few paces, then hands her 
over to James, who has stood a little 
nonplussed and embarrassed. ) 
Rev. P. There, James ! Take her. Cherish 
her. Let her be as the loving hind and the 
pleasant roe, but don't fondle her indiscrimi- 
nately in public. 

James {giving Louisa his arm). All same, 
pa'son, this way of courting 'ull never drive out 
the other way. 

{Taking Louisa off at gate l.) 
Rev. P. It needn't, James — in private. 
{Exeunt James and Louisa at gate l. ) 



52 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

Enter, r., John Dibley and Martha Dibley, a 
very aged, infirm old couple supporting each 
other. 

Rev. P. Well, John, and how are you to- 
night, John ? 

Dibley. Oh, I be 'nation wellnigh blind, 
thank God ; and I ain't very clever in my 
insides, thank God; and I 'spect I be about 
doubled up and done for, thank God ; but 
otherways there ain't much the matter with 
me, thank God ! 

Rev. P. {Jo Mrs. Dibley). I'm glad to see 
you at church again, Martha. 

Martha. Yes, pa'son. I feel somehow as 
I can't keep away from the old place. 

Rev. P. That's right, Martha. It does you 
good ? 

Martha. Oh no, pa'son ! We don't come 
to church for the good as we can get out of it. 

Rev. P. Then why do you come to church 
Martha ? 

Martha. You see, pa'son, when we've sot 
ourselves down comfortable for the sermon and 
you begin a-holding forth, I feel my old man's 
hand a-creeping towards mine, and mine 
a-creeping towards hisen, and I know he's 
a-thinking of our two boys as lay just out- 
side the church a few foot off, eh, John? 



act ii THE PHYSICIAN 53 

John. Aye, aye ! 

Martha. And we sit there and we fancy as 
they're back again with us, and we're all one 
family again. 

Rev. P. It's no fancy, Martha. We shall 
all be members of that family before long. And 
a very large family it will be. 

John. Aye, aforelong, thank God ! Come 
along, old woman ! (As they creep off towards 
the wicket gate l.) Come along. 

{Exeunt John and Martha Dibley at 
wicket gate l. ) 

Enter Edana, r., with Marah, a 
child about five. 

Marah. But where's my mammy ? And 
where's my father? 

Edana. You have one Father — in 

Heaven 

Marah. I've never seen Him ! Why 
doesn't He come down here sometimes ? I 
mean a real live father like other little girls 
have. There's your father. (Pointing to Rev. 
Peregrine Hinde.) Where's mine ? 

(Dr. Carey enters wicket gate r. ) 

Edana. I'll lend you my father sometimes. 
He's a very nice father, indeed. You couldn't 
have a better. 



54 THE PHYSICIAN ACT n 

Marah. But where's my mammy ? I think 
I should like you for a mammy 

Ed ana. Hush, dear. {Kisses her, hides her 
face, looks up.) What are you thinking of, Dr. 
Carey ? 

Dr. C. The old mystery. The how and the 
why of love. The how and the why of life. 
{She kisses the child again and hides her head 
behind her.) It's very wonderful. And the 
more the microscope tells us about the how, 
the less we know about the why. What's your 
name, my pretty one? {To Edana.) Who is 
she ? 

Edana. Her name is Marah. 

Enter, r., Stephen Gurdon, a man about sixty, a 
stern broken man, with strong features, and a 
settled hopeless look upon them. 

Edana. Here is her grandfather ! 

(Stephen Gurdon sits on seat r., nodding 
to the Rev. Peregrine Hinde.) 
Rev. P. Well, Stephen ? 
Stephen {curtly). Pa'son. 

{Sits, looks steadily in front of him.) 
Dr. C. {in a low tone to Rev. Peregrine). 
What's the story ? 

Rev. P. He had an only daughter — she was 
betrayed, poor child — ran away from home and 



act ii THE PHYSICIAN 55 

came back with that little one. We tried to 
keep her here, and bring her back to the fold, 
but she ran away again and went utterly 
astray — sank and disappeared. God have 
mercy on her and save her yet ! The mother 
broke her heart and died. He broke his heart, 
but he lives on, poor man ! 

Stephen {seeing they are whispering). Telling 
over my old tale again, pa'son ? You ain't got 
no call to do that. 

Rev. P. But we can't help feeling sympathy 
with you. 

Stephen. Can't you ? Well, try and help 
it, pa'son. I don't want your sympathy. 

Rev. P. Very well, Stephen ; we'll keep it 
till you do. Won't you soften your heart and 
come with us to-night, Stephen ? 

Stephen. No, I don't believe the stuff, and 
I won't say that I do. I'd as lief be left alone, 
pa'son. 

Rev. P. Very well, Stephen. But remem- 
ber we keep open house here. 

{Exit into church.) 

Edana {following Rev. Peregrine Hinde). 
Dr. Carey, aren't you coming to church ? 

Dr. C. I promised to go and dress that 
poor fellow's leg. And I forgot all about him 
listening to you. 

Eeana. You'll come back ? 



56 THE PHYSICIAN act II 

Dr. C. Yes. And if I don't come inside, 
look for me at the leper's window. 

{Pointing to the leper's window.} 
Edana. No, you are healed now. 
Dr. C. Am I ? You are my physician. 
{Exit wicket gate r. Edana goes into 
church.} 
Stephen. Come here, Marah. Keep be- 
side me. 

Marah {goes to him). Grandpa, what makes 
you so angry always ? Can't you laugh? 

Stephen. Oh yes, my chick. ( With a 
bitter, contemptuous laugh.) I can laugh. 
{Laughs again. ) I can laugh ! 

{The child looks at him frightened. 
Amphiel appears at the wicket gate r. ; 
enters without seeing them, then catch- 
ing sight of them is about to retreat, 
but Marah sees him.) 
Marah. Look, grandpa ! Mr. Amphiel. 
(Amphiel comes up to them. He looks 
somewhat dissipated and haggard. His 
manner is furtive and constrained. ) 

Amphiel. Stephen 

Stephen {looks tip and curtly nods). Mr. 

Amphiel, you're back home 

Amphiel. Yes, rather unexpectedly. 
Stephen. You haven't happened to meet 
with Jessie in any of your travels, I suppose ? 



act ii THE PHYSICIAN 57 

Amphiel. No. I promised you I'd keep 
a good look-out for her in all the towns where 
I go, and so I will. But I've not been in 
England lately — I've been to India. 

Stephen. Ah ! 

Amphiel. But I shall be visiting a few of 
the large towns on temperance work shortly 
and I will have some inquiries made. You 
may be sure I will do everything I can to find 
her for you. 

Stephen. You remember Jessie as a girl, 
don't you ? 

Amphiel. Oh, very well — very well indeed. 

Stephen. She was a handsome, strapping 
girl, wasn't she? {Turning to Marah.) Do 
3'ou see the likeness ? 

Amphiel. Hush! Hush! (To Marah.) 
Marah, run away for a moment. I want to 
talk to your grandfather. (The child goes 
over, r.) I wish I could find your daughter. 
But I fear it's not likely. 

Stephen. No, and if you did, what would 
she be like now ? After six years of that ! 
What's she doing to-night? Look! (pointing 
to the sunset) it's a beautiful evening, ain't it ? 
And this is a hell of a world, ain't it ? 

Amphiel. Oh, don't speak like that. Mr. 
Gurdon, tell me, is there anything I can do 
to help you, to comfort you ? 



58 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

Stephen. Yes, bring me word that she's 
dead, so that I may know my own flesh and 
blood ain't hawking itself about from gin-shop 
to gin-shop this beautiful evening. (Going- off 
wicket gate l.) Come along, Marah. I wonder 
what she's like to-night ! I wonder what she's 
like to-night ! (Exit wicket gate l.) 

(Marah is crossing to follow him; Am- 
phiel, who has stood horrified, inter- 
cepts her as she passes him.) 
Amphiel. Marah, kiss me, my dear. (Kisses 
her hungrily.) Marah, when you grow up — 
you won't — you won't — kiss me, dear; prom- 
ise me you'll grow up to be a good girl ? 
Stephen {voice heard off). Come, Marah ! 
Marah. Hark ! Grandpa ! 

Amphiel. But promise me 

Marah. Yes, of course. I shall always be 
good. I promise you; there! (Kisses him.) 
Amphiel. My dear, my dear ! 

(Stroking her hair affectionately. She 
breaks away from him, runs off after 
Stephen. Amphiel follows her a 
few steps. From this time stage 
gradually grows darker. Singing in 
the church. Amphiel goes to the 
lepers' window, looks in, shows great 
emotion, stretches out his hands with 
a vain, longing gesture. As the music 



ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 59 

swells he tumbles against the church 
wall, sobbing violently. ) 

(After a pause Edana re-enters from the 
church behind him. She stands a mo- 
ment or two watching him, then comes 
up to him, touches his shoulder.') 

Edana. Walter ! (He turns round.) Wal- 
ter ! I saw you through the window. You've 
come back? (He turns round startled, rises, 
looks dazed, bewildered.) Walter ! What is it, 
dear ? What ails you ? 

Amphiel. I don't know — the thought of 
the crowd in church — I'm always moved by 
the sight of a crowd. Don't take any notice 
of me. I'm better. 

Edana. I'm so glad, so glad you've come 
back ! I've been so anxious about you. Where 
have you been ? When did you land ? 

Amphiel. I've been in England some days. 
I didn't tell you because I wanted so much 
to start the new refuge at Plymouth. I felt it 
was my duty. I only finished very late last 
night — too late to telegraph you. So I came 
on at once. 

Edana. I might have known you had been 
at some good work. But I've been so anxious ! 
You should have written to me ! Never mind ! 
You're here! You're here! I can't tell you 



60 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

how glad I am ! ( Crying a little with joy. ) 
Now it's I who am foolish ! I'm so pleased 
to see you ! Let me look at you ! (He turns 
away from her.) No, let me look at you. I 
want to see if you are better. 

Amphiel. I'm well enough. The voyage 
has done me a world of good. 

{Avoiding her scrutiny.) 

Edana (very anxiously). Are you sure? 
Are you sure ? Oh, my dearest, you look ill — 
you look very ill. 

Amphiel. No, no. Only a little tired. 
That's all. 

Edana. Dr. Carey shall see you in the 
morning. 

Amphiel. Dr. Carey ? Is he still here ? 
Why hasn't he gone back? 

Edana. He has given up his practice and 
is living here. I've talked to him so much 
about you. He has promised to take you 
thoroughly in hand and look after you till 
you're quite well. 

Amphiel. I tell you there's nothing the mat- 
ter with me. I'm quite well ! I won't see him ! 

Edana. Yes, yes, dearest — to please me. 
Say it's only my whim, but do, do see him. 
Oh, my dearest, you don't know how I care 
for you. My heart is like stone when I think 
of you. 



ACT II THE PHYSICIAN 61 

Amphiel. I'm not worth it. Don't trouble 
about me. I tell you I'm not worth it. 

Edana. Oh yes, indeed you are, and I 
must have you well. Oh, I've so much to tell 
you. But tell me about yourself first. 

Amphiel. Edana, since I've been in India 
I've formed a great plan. 

Edana. Yes, dear, tell me. 

Amphiel. It depends on you whether I 
carry it out or not. 

Edana. If it depends on me you know it 
is done — if it is anything within my power. 

Amphiel. Dare you give up everything for 
the cause, and for me ? 

Edana. Try me and see. 

Amphiel. You know, dear, that at times I 
have a dreadful nausea of life and feel obliged 
to hide away from my fellow-creatures for a 
while, and then nothing brings me round but 
a plunge into my work. 

Edana. Ah, dear, you work too hard. 

Amphiel. No, no, it's my work that keeps 
me alive. Edana, I feel that if I were to leave 
England altogether 

Edana. For life ? 

Amphiel. For some years. There's a tre- 
mendous field for temperance work in India. 
There, the fiend is opium. Here, it's alcohol. 
But the craving, the disease, is the same. 



62 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

Edana. And you would go to India to live? 
Amphiel. Dare I ask it of you ? 
Edana. My father ! 

Amphiel. Ah ! I knew it was too much to ask. 

Edana. No, no ! I'll do it if it is the best 

for you. I gave myself to you and I won't draw 

back. Yes, Walter, when you ask me I shall be 

ready. 

Amphiel. Oh, I'm not worthy of you ! 
Edana. Not worthy of me ? Oh, you are 
far better and braver than I am. I love you 
for your devotion to your work ! There's not 
another man in the world like you. 

(Dr. Carey has entered wicket gate r., 
and has come upon them to overhear 
the last words, and to see her looking 
up to Amphiel with the greatest 
devotion. He sees Amphiel — a 
momentary glance of recognition be- 
twee?i the two men, Amphiel shows 
fright and mutely appeals to Dr. 
Carey. Dr. Carey shows great mo- 
mentary surprise with horror, which 
he quickly conceals?) 

Dr. C. I beg pardon (Is going.) 

Edana. No, Dr. Carey, don't go. I want 
to introduce you. Mr. Amphiel — Dr. Carey. 
(Amphiel again makes mute appeal to Dr. 
Carey.) 



act ii THE PHYSICIAN 63 

Amphiel. How d'ye do, Dr. Carey? 

(Offers hand, which Carey takes after 
slight reluctance.') 
Dr. C. How d'ye do? 

Edana (to Dr. Carey). There is your 
patient. He has come at last. (To Amphiel.) 
You are to put yourself entirely in his hands 
and do exactly as he tells you, and (very ex- 
citedly) you will, you will for my sake ? 

(Amphiel looks at Dr. Carey with 
mingled apprehension and appeal. ) 
Dr. C. (significantly looking at Amphiel). I'm 
sure Mr. Amphiel will trust himself to me, and 
I shall give him every care and attention. 

Edana (to Amphiel). There ! Now I'm satis- 
fied ! I feel you are well already. 

(Marah runs in at wicked gate l., and 
comes up to Edana.) 
Edana. I feel so happy ! I haven't got over 
the thought that you are here ! Ah, Marah ! 

(Seizes the child, kisses her. Amphiel 
makes a movement to stop her, which 
Edana does not notice ; it is, however, 
seen by Dr. Carey, who for the moment 
does not tinder stand it ; turns round to 
notice Stephen, who enters wicket gate 
l. Dr. Carey's face shows a sudden 
illuminatio?i of horror; he turns to 
Amphiel, who appeals to him. Dr. 
Carey stands horror-stricken.) 



64 THE PHYSICIAN act ii 

Edana {hugging Marah). Oh, I'm so happy, 
Marah, so happy ! You must come with me and 
I must give you something to make you happy. 
(To Amphiel. ) You're to tell him everything and 
then come on to the Vicarage to me. I've so 
much to talk about ! Come, Marah. (To Ste- 
phen.) I'm going to take her with me, Mr. 
Gurdon. Come and fetch her by-and-by. (To 
Amphiel.) Don't be long! I'm waiting for 
you ! Don't be long ! 

(Exit, r., fondling Marah. Stephen 
follows. Dr. Carey, as soon as 
Edana and Marah have gone off, 
allows himself the full expression of 
his horror to Amphiel, poi?its to 
Stephen's retreating figure. Am- 
phiel stands abject, appealing. Exit 
Stephen, r.) 
Amphiel (in a whisper). You won't betray 
me ? 

Dr. C. My God! My God! You! You 
to be her husband ? 

Amphiel. You won't betray me ? (Agonized.) 
You won't betray me ? 

Dr. C. Betray you ? No ! But you'll 
break off this engagement. 

Amphiel. I can't! I can't! I love her 
so much. And she loves me. It would break 
her heart. I can't give her up ! I'll make 



act ii THE PHYSICIAN 65 

myself worthy of her. It's not too late ! I 
can do anything for her sake. I can conquer 
myself and I will ! Help me ! You're a phy- 
sician. She said you could cure me. Will 
you ? Will you ? I throw myself on your 
mercy ! Save me ! 

Dr. C. {hesitates for a few moments. He 
looks very searchingly at Amphiel, seizes Am- 
phiel's hands, makes Amphiel look at him. 
Hymn in church). Will you put yourself in my 
hands from this moment ? Will you give 
yourself over to me, do as I bid you, be guided 
by me in everything, till I have done my best 
to heal you, made a new man of you, so far 
as that is possible ? Will you do it ? 

Amphiel. Yes, yes — anything. And you'll 
save me from myself? 

Dr. C. Trust to me ! Whatever human 
skill and patience can do, I'll do for you, and 
I'll never leave you while there's a hope that 
I can drag you out of this mire and make you 
fit to hold up your head before all men, and 
before her ! Trust to me, my poor lad, trust 
to me ! 

Curtain. 
(Six months pass between Acts II. and III.) 



ACT III 



Scene — The Abbot's Kitchen at Fontleas, a very 
quaint, irregular Gothic building adapted to a 
modern living room, with evidences of frequent 
restoration and alteration. 

On the r. down stage a large old-fashioned fireplace 
with ornaments and photographs, one of them a 
photograph of Amphiel and Edana taken together. 
Above the fireplace a large old-fashioned armchair, 
very deep ; a small table on castors is laid with the 
remains of dinner for two. Chairs above and to l. 
of table. The whole of this r. side of the room is 
curtained in and forms a cosy nook — the curtains 
of heavy dark material run from an angle in the 
wall up stage to within about two yards of the 
footlights, and are hung on a brass rod suspended 
from the ceiling, which is rather low. Above and 
in line with the curtains is a door, called through- 
out the Act the inner door. All the l. side of the 
stage at back is taken up with a deep recess and 
bay window. In this recess is a large table with 
microscopes, glass bottles, tubes, scientific instru- 
ments and apparatus, books, papers, MSS., scien- 

(67) 



68 THE PHYSICIAN act hi 

tific periodicals, etc. At the sides of the recess and 
wider the bay windows are shelves filled with scien- 
tific books, and there are heaps of books on the 
floor in the recess. The window looks out upon a 
wintry night landscape with moon. The window 
and recess are also curtained off by curtains. These 
curtains run across r. and l. The space to the l. 
makes a kind of hall, a?id is carpeted but sparely 
furnished, 07ie or two chairs and a small table 
somewhat to the l. In the l. wall a window up 
stage, and a very large thick old oak door with 
heavy handle and lock aud key down stage. Be- 
tween the window atid door on the l., are several 
pegs with hats, overcoats, and a?i ujnbrella stand 
with umbrella a?id sticks. 

Time : about half past seven on a December evening. 

Discover Dr. Carey and Brooker at the little table 
r., curtained in by the curtain running down stage 
from the inner door. Dr. Carey is on the chair 
above the table, Brooker on a chair at the side of 
the table. The curtains running across the stage 
are also drawn, shutting off the table and scientific 
apparatus. They have just finished dinner, and a 
bright fire is burning. 

Dr. C. Well, I told you I was equal to a 
plain dinner. 

Brooker. Excellent. A cutlet, a cold 
chicken, and a bottle of seventy-five claret, 
what can a man want more ? 



ACT in THE PHYSICIAN 69 

Dr. C. And you really took me by surprise. 

Brooker. I had the afternoon to spare. 
I looked up "Bradshaw," found I could just 
catch a train, have an hour with you, and get 
back by the late express. What a confounded 
queer place to live in, Carey ! 

{Looking round the place. ) 

Dr. C. Yes, it was the kitchen belonging 
to the old abbey. It tumbled into decay and 
got turned into a farmhouse. It tumbled into 
decay again, the farmer himself tumbled into 
decay, and died ; his widow sold off the land, 
patched the old place up, and made it just fit 
for me to live in. 

Brooker. And you can really live here all 
alone ? 

Dr. C. Not all alone. I have two human 
companions, and some millions of microbes. 

Brooker. And where are they, the human 
companions ? 

Dr. C. My housekeeper, old Granny Bar- 
ton, is racked with rheumatism, so I've sent 
her over to Buxenham for a course of treat- 
ment, and her neighbour Mrs. Bowden comes 
in and does for me. Then I've one patient, 
Mr. Walter Amphiel — fill your glass. 

Brooker {filling glass). Amphiel, the 
Temperance organiser — does he let you drink 
seventy-five claret ? 



70 THE PHYSICIAN act ill 

Dr. C. No. I've not tasted wine for the 
last six months, all the time he has been with 
me. But he's away just now. 

Brooker. Oh — where is he? 

(Mrs. Bowden, a stout, pleasant-looking 
country woman in bonnet and shawl, 
enters at inner door, draws aside the 
curtai?is. ) 

Dr. C. Well, Mrs. Bowden, going for the 
night ? 

Mrs. B. Yes, doctor, unless there's any- 
thing I can do for you. 

Dr. C. Nothing, thank you. 

Mrs. B. I suppose Mr. Amphiel won't be 
coming back to-night ? 

Dr. C. {after a slight pause. ) No, I think 
not. 

Mrs. B. I've left his room ready for him 
in case he does. And perhaps you'll excuse 
my going. I've got my man to look after, 
and he does rave and storm the house down 
if his supper ain't ready to the minute. 

Dr. C. Ah ! husbands are tiresome ani- 
mals, Mrs. Bowden. 

Mrs. B. {cordially). Oh they are, sir ! 
You know 'em, being a doctor. Whatever 
possesses a gal to get married when she's 
well off, I cannot think. But the chaps will 
come teasing and plaguing round us, and we 



act in THE PHYSICIAN 71 

fools like it — and then, there it is — work 
and worry and babies, work and worry and 
babies, nothing else from the time you're 
twenty till you're wore out. Oh dear, oh 

dear ! I do hope there's some good purpose 
running through it all. 

Dr. C. I hope so, Mrs. Bowden. But the 
ways of Providence are dark. 

Mrs. B. Oh, they are, sir. You may well 
say that. Breakfast as usual, sir ? 

Dr. C. Breakfast as usual, Mrs. Bowden. 

Mrs. B. Then I'll say good-night, sir. (To 
Brooker.) And good-night to you, sir. 

Dr. C. Good-night, Mrs. Bowden' 



Brooker. Good-night! 

(Exit Mrs. Bowden at inner door. As 
she goes off, Dr. Carey rises, pushes 
chair back fro?n table, further draws 
back the curtain. Brooker moves 
his chair. Carey pushes table a 
little out into center of room and up 
towards the inner door — it remains 
there just on the right side of the cur- 
tain line during the remainder of Act. ) 
Dr. C. (taking out watch). You've half an 
hour yet, old fellow. Light your cigar and 
let's make the most of it. 

Brooker. How can you bury yourself in 
this hole, Carey? 



72 THE PHYSICIAN act hi 

Dr. C. Hole ? Bury myself ? I've been 
living, Brooker, the last few months, really 
living for the first time in my life. 

Brooker. But you're wasting yourself 
down here. 

Dr. C. Wasting myself ! I work from 
morning to night. {Goes up to curtains, draws 
them aside, discovers the back of the room and table 
with scientific apparatus, etc.) Look! (Takes 
up a tube, holds it to Brooker.) Don't whisper 
it, Brooker, I fancy I'm on the track of the 
cancer microbe ! I'm not sure I haven't got 
my gentleman here. And I shall have a little 
to say and a great deal to do when the next 
cholera outbreak comes. You know I was al- 
ways more of a student than a practitioner. I 
never had quite a good bedside manner, Brooker. 

Brooker. And you've quite made up your 
mind not to come back to London ? 

Dr. C. Quite, so settle yourself in Caven- 
dish Square, physic away, and say no more 
about it. 

( Goes rather restlessly to outer door, opens 
it, looks out, shuts it.) 

Brooker. Are you expecting anybody ? 

Dr. C. No. Only the evening post. 

Brooker. Carey, I shan't like leaving you 
to-night. 

Dr. C. Why not ? 



ACT in THE PHYSICIAN 73 

Brooker. There's something wrong with 
you. I've been watching you. You're feverish, 
restless, unsettled. 

Dr. C. Am I ? 

Brooker. What ails you ? Can an old 
friend be of any help or comfort ? 

Dr. C. I'll tell you, Brooker. I don't think 
I could speak of this to anybody but you. It's 
too sacred. 

Brooker. Go on ! 

Dr. C. I suppose most of us have been 
attracted and have lightly loved many women. 
Those loves are not love. And I suppose most 
of us have had, once in our lives, an overpower- 
ing passion. 

Brooker. Yes. Thank God, I got mine 
over early, when I was twenty-five. 

Dr. C. And since then ? 

Brooker. Since then I've been too busy 
scraping together bread and cheese for Mrs. 
Brooker and my family to get into much mis- 
chief of that sort. And now I hope I'm com- 
fortably past the danger of making myself a 
fool for a woman. 

Dr. C. {looking at him). You're not to be 
envied, Brooker. 

Brooker. Perhaps not. But Mrs. Brooker 
is. Go on. 

Dr. C. You remember my coming down 



74 THE PHYSICIAN act III 

here last spring? I was quite hopeless except 
for the one thought that perhaps I might make 
Miss Hinde happy by restoring her lover to 
health. 

Brooker. Well ? 

Dr. C. He went on a voyage to India. 
Meanwhile I saw a great deal of her, helped her 
in her parish work, and doctored her invalids. 
Brooker, before Amphiel came back, I couldn't 
disguise from myself that my whole future, my 
whole being, my whole life, were bound up in 
that girl. 

Brooker. Nonsense, Carey ! Nonsense ! 
Nonsense ! 

Dr. C. No, Brooker, Wisdom ! Wisdom ! 
From the moment I saw her, I became young 
and hopeful again. She has sweetened and 
blessed and renewed the whole earth for me. 
I tell you, Brooker, of all the millions around 
us she and I are the only living creatures on 
this earth. 

Brooker. Nonsense ! Nonsense ! Nonsense ! 

Dr. C. No, Wisdom ! Wisdom ! Wisdom ! 
If I had to part from her, I feel that moment I 
should drop back again into madness and 
despair. With her — with her — O my God ! 
Brooker — with her what a splendid life I 
could live in this dull world for the next 
thirty years. 



act in THE PHYSICIAN 75 

Brooker. But you say she is engaged to 
Amphiel? 

Dr. C. Yes. 

Brooker. And she's attached to him ? 

Dr. C. Devotedly attached. 

Brooker. And she doesn't suspect your 
feelings for her ? 

Dr. C. She must know that I have a great 
regard for her, perhaps guesses that I love her. 
But so far as I have been able, I have been 
perfectly loyal to her, and to him. 

Brooker. Carey, this is madness, you 
know. It can't continue. Why don't you get 
away from this place and leave her to marry 
the fellow ? 

Dr. C. I told you he is my patient. 

Brooker. Oh yes, of course. You said 
he'd been been living with you here for some 
months. ( Gets up to light his cigar, goes to fire- 
place.*) Curious arrangement. What's the 
matter with him ? {At that moment his eyes fall 
upon the photograph of Amphiel and Edana which 
is on the shelf of the fireplace ; he shows so?ne as- 
tonishment and takes up the photograph. ) Carey, 
whose portraits are these ? 

Dr. C. That is Amphiel — and Miss Hinde, 
taken together. 

Brooker {startled}. This man Amphiel — 
this — Amphiel ? 



76 THE PHYSICIAN act III 

Dr. C. Yes — Why? 

Brooker. The young fellow who consulted 
you 

Dr. C. Of course. You saw him that eve- 
ning. I had forgotten. 

Brooker. You forgot, too, that he had 
consulted me about four years before. Carey, 
I wasn't mistaken — that man is a drunk- 
ard. 

Dr. C. Yes. 

Brooker. A hopeless drunkard? 

Dr. C. No — not quite hopeless, since he 
has been here with me. 

Brooker. And she doesn't know? 

Dr. C. She hasn't the least thought of it. 
She could see he was ill, and asked me to take 
him under my care. I've had him hanging 
round my neck like a millstone for the last six 
months. 

Brooker. Where is he now? 

Dr. C. I don't know. But I shall know 
in a few minutes — as soon as the post comes 
in. {Looking anxiously at the outer door.} 

Brooker. I don't understand — you 

seem 

Dr. C. I seem — what ? 

Brooker. You seem to be waiting for 
some bad news of him. 

Dr. C. I am ! I hate him, Brooker ! I 



act in THE PHYSICIAN 77 

may as well show you all my heart now I've 
begun. I hate him ! Damn him ! I hate him ! 
for he stands between her and me. I brought 
him here to live with me ; I've been alone with 
him all this while. I've scarcely let him go 
out of my sight. The strain has been awful. 
At times it has almost driven me mad. To 
sit here and talk to him, soothe him, amuse 
him, knowing all the while that the devil 
inside him was urging him to get away and 
ruin himself. I've been doctor, nurse, father, 
brother, friend to him. I never had such a 
task. But I've done it, because she loves 
him. And partly because the man interests 
me, fascinates me. Here's the strange thing — 
I hate him, but I want to save him. I began 
to feel proud of the case. I saw him growing 
brighter, happier, stronger every day. And it 
made her so happy. She was so grateful to 
me. Well, all went well with him till three 
weeks ago 

Brooker. What then ? 

Dr. C. He went out for a walk with her 
and persuaded her that his temperance work 
called him away. She believed him and came 
back alone. We got no news of him. She 
grew more and more anxious, and a week ago 
I went up to London and put the matter in 
the hands of Nicholson the private detective. 



78 THE PHYSICIAN act ill 
I got this telegram from him this morning 



( Taking telegram from pocket and giving 
it to Brooker. ) 

Brooker {reading the telegram}. " Have 
discovered the person. Am writing you fully 
by this post. Nicholson." {Giving back tele- 
gram to Dr. Carey.) And you fear 

Dr. C. Fear? No, Brooker — that's it — 
I don't fear — I almost hope. (A postman's 
knock at outer door.} The post ! 

{Goes to door, opens it.) 

Postman {without, handifig in letter). Bitter 
cold again to-night, sir. 

Dr. C. {taking letter). Very cold. 

Postman. Good-night, sir. 

Dr. C. Good-night, Carter. 

( Closes door, looking intently at letter. ) 

Brooker. From Nicholson? 

Dr. C. Yes. {Opens letter watched by 
Brooker. As he reads his face shoivs an intense 
stealthy interest, growing more and more eager, 
almost malignant. Very quiet hoarse tone denot- 
ing the utmost suppressed excite?nent.) He has 
broken out, Brooker. They've found him in 
one of the lowest dens in Bristol. He has 
been there for some days. Last night he got 
away from there — they don't know where. 
Read. (Brooker takes letter.) Oh, what a 
wretch I am to rejoice that a man is ruined ! 



act in THE PHYSICIAN 79 

Brooker {reads). "He was, however, in a 
much calmer state last night, and had almost 
recovered. He seems to have had some suspi- 
cion that he was being watched, for during the 
evening he managed to get away. We are 
making urgent inquiries for him in every direc- 
tion, and will let you know as soon as we have 
traced him. We have carefully observed your 
instructions concerning secresy, and have not 
allowed his name to transpire." Got away? 
What do you suppose has become of him ? 

Dr. C. How should I know ? Am I his 
keeper? Haven't I done my best? For the 
last six months I've held that man from slip- 
ping over the precipice. If I had let go my 
hold for one moment he would have dropped. 
Now he has tumbled in spite of me ! Well, 
I can't help it. I've done with him ! I give 
him up ! Am I not justified ? Eh ? Eh ? 
Am I not justified ? 

Brooker. Carey ! Carey ! 

Dr. C. You know I'm justified ! I am ! I 
am ! I gave him every chance, more than every 
chance. I've fought for him against himself ! 
I've kept suspicion away from her. I've 
watched him making love to her day after 
day, and I've watched her lifting her face to 
his with a look of that I'd whistle my soul 
away to get from her. Now that's all past ! 



80 THE PHYSICIAN act hi 

It's going to be my turn ! I'm free of him 
and she shall be free of him. Yes, I under- 
stand her nature, she won't love him when 
she knows the truth. 

Brooker. And you'll let her know ? 
Dr. C. How can I help it ? Why should 
I try to hinder it? 

(A knock at the outer door. During the 
above speeches Brooker has unobtru- 
sively laid the letter on the table R.) 
Dr. C. Is it Amphiel? 

(Goes to door, opens it.) 

Enter Edana in out-door winter dress. 

Dr. C. Miss Hinde. 

Edana. You have a visitor. 

Dr. C. {presenting). Doctor Brooker — Miss 
Hinde. (Edana bows.) 

Brooker (bowing). How d'ye do ? ( Takes 
out watch.) Carey, I must be going. (Goes 
to l. side of the room where his hat and overcoat 
are hanging, takes them down.) I'm sorry to be 
leaving you, but I've only just time to catch 
my train. 

(Dr. Carey goes and helps him on with 
overcoat. Edana goes towards fire.) 

Brooker. How long will it take me to get 
to the station ? 



ACT in THE PHYSICIAN 81 

Dr. C. About ten minutes. 

Brooker. You'll let me know how this 
turns out ? 

Dr. C. Yes. 

Brooker. Good-night, Miss Hinde. 

Edana. Good-night, Dr. Brooker. 

Brooker {to Dr. Carey). Good-bye. 

Dr. C. Good-bye. You're sure you know 
your way ? 

Brooker. Oh yes. Carey, old fellow 
{glancing at Edana), are you sure you know 
yours ? {A significant look.) 

Dr. C. I'll try and find it. 

{Exit Brooker at outer door.) 

Dr. C. {closes door after Brooker and corties 
to Edana, very tenderly). Miss Hinde. 

Edana. Have you heard anything of 
Walter ? 

Dr. C. {hesitates). I hope I shall have 
some news for you in a day or two. 

Edana. In a day or two ! But I can't 
wait. I feel sure he's in some danger or 
trouble. And I can't get to him ! 

Dr. C. {very searchnigly, but without show- 
ing it to her). Suppose you had to hear some 
bad news of him — you would be brave and 
bear it ? 

Edana. What do you mean ? 

Dr. C. You still wish to share in this great 



82 THE PHYSICIAN act in 

enterprise of his — you are still as much at- 
tached to his cause — and to him? 

Edana. Is there an}' need to ask me that ? 
You know I am ! Why do you ask me ? 
You've heard something! He's dead ! 

Dr. C. No. You needn't fear that. 

Edana. He's ill. You've had news. (At 
this moment Dr. Carey's eyes fall o?i the letter 
Brooker has laid on the table l. She follows 
his glance. Dr. Carey takes up the letter.} 
That letter ! It's about him ! Why don't you 
speak ? Oh, why do you torture me ? 

Dr. C. {holding letter'). Miss Hinde, tell me, 
you know I wouldn't willingly torture you 

Edana. I'm sure you wouldn't. But if 
that letter has news of Mr. Amphiel, let me 
see it — or at least tell me what it contains. 
(Holding out her hand.) 

Dr. C. (his face shows a momentary struggle). 
Tell me, you know that I would always do 
what I thought to be best for you and him — 
at least, best for you. 

Edana. I'm sure you would, but — I must 
know where he is. Why won't you tell me? 

Dr. C. I don't know, and this letter 
doesn't say. To read it would only add to 
your anxiety. Trust me. You've trusted me 
for many months past. Say that you'll trust 
me a little longer? 



act in THE PHYSICIAN 83 

Edana {looks at hint). Yes, I will trust you. 

Dr. C. {puts letter i?i pocket). And rest 
assured we shall have some news of him be- 
fore long. 

Edana. Ah, but when ? Oh, I can't wait ! 
I've not slept for three nights. 

Dr. C. Not slept for three nights ! 

{A knock at outer door. Dr. Carey 
goes to it, opens it.) 

Dr. C. Lady Valerie ! 

Lady Valerie, in very handsome widow's mourn- 
ing, enters, followed by Saunders, her maid, 
also in mourning. 

Lady V. It's an unconscionable hour to 
call. But I see you do receive visitors as late 
as this. {Glancing at Edana. Bows to her. 
Edana bows.) Are you at home? 

Dr. C. Yes, certainly. As soon as I've 
seen Miss Hinde safely to the Vicarage. 

Edana. Oh, please no. 

Lady V. My maid shall go with you. 

Edana. It's only a few steps across the 
fields, and there is a moon. I won't have any 
one come with me. Good-night, Lady Va- 
lerie. 

Lady V. Good-night. 

Edana. Good-night, Dr. Care3'. 



84 THE PHYSICIAN act ill 

Dr. C. Good-night. Sleep well to-night. 
You can and you will. 

Edana. Oh, I can't. 

Dr. C. Try. Try. And to-morrow we may 
have news ! 

Edana. Oh, I can't endure the suspense ! 
{Exit Edana at outer door. Dr. Carey 
looks after her.") 

Lady V. Saunders, you've had nothing 
since lunch. Go to the inn and get some- 
thing to eat. And wait for me there. 

Saunders. Yes, my lady. 

(Dr. Carey holds the door open for 
Saunders and closes it after her.) 

Dr. C. This is an unexpected pleasure 

Lady V. Pleasure ? 

Dr. C. What brings you back here ? 

Lady V. Boredom ! Boredom ! Boredom ! 
Boredom devours me everywhere. Even bury- 
ing one's husband has a smack of it. And 
widowhood, which in the distance seems a 
rosy paradise, is nothing but a Sahara when 
you get there. You don't seem very pleased 
to see me. Am I welcome ? 

Dr. C. I'll try to make you so. 

Lady V. You'll try ? You're terribly frank. 

Dr. C. Won't it be better for us to be 
quite honest with each other ? 

Lady V. You talk as if we had tried 



ACT in THE PHYSICIAN 85 

the other policy and it hadn't quite suc- 
ceeded. 

Dr. C. I've always been quite honest with 
you — at least, in all the great things of life. 

Lady V. There are no great things in life, 
my poor Lewin. It's all very small beer, and 
very scanty skittles. {Looking at the table.) 
White muslin has been dining with you tete- 
a-t£te ? 

Dr. C. No, my old friend Brooker. He 
has just left for London. 

Lady V. But white muslin was here. I'm 
horribly jealous — but I'm horribly hungry too. 
Dr. C. And I've only cold chicken to offer 
you. But you are heartily welcome. 

Lady V. I am heartily welcome to your 
cold chicken. Thank you. I'll try your cold 
chicken. {Sitting down to table.) 

Dr. C. My servant has gone for the night, 
so I'm all alone. 

(A knock at outer door. Dr. Carey goes 
to open it, opens it, telegraph boy hands 
in a telegram. Dr. Carey closes 
door. ) 
Dr. C. Allow me. 

{Opens telegra?n, reads it, shows great 
interest. ) 
Lady V. You're all alone. Where is your 
patient, Mr. Amphiel ? 



86 THE PHYSICIAN act hi 

Dr. C. He has been away. Curiously- 
enough, this telegram is from him. He is 
coming back to-night. 

{A pause. Dr. Carey stands much ab- 
solved looking at the telegram.*) 

Lady V. What's the matter ? Has any- 
thing happened to him ? 

Dr. C. {recalling himself). No. Nothing. 
{Puts telegram in pocket.) 

Lady V. Then light your cigar and talk 
to me. But don't look at me while I'm eat- 
ing. 

Dr. C. Not look at you ? 

Lady V. I'm sure your later theory is 
right. Women are entirely spiritual. I con- 
stantly feel little shootings and sproutings 
about my shoulder-blades where my wings 
will be, and then isn't it disgusting ? two or 
three times every day my hatefully healthy 
appetite drives me to toy with such gross re- 
alities as this. {Holding up a chicken bone.) 
Oh, don't laugh at me ! If you knew how 
sad my heart is — {deep sigh) you never sent 
me a word, Lewin. 

Dr. C. What could I say? 

Lady V. Any cut-and-dried message of 
condolence would have done. It would have 
cost you nothing and it would have meant 
so much to me. I wonder if any man ever 



act in THE PHYSICIAN 87 

guesses the exquisite agony a woman feels 
who waits and waits and waits for one word 
of love from the man to whom she has been 
all the world — and waits in vain. 

Dr. C. I wonder if any woman ever 
guesses the exquisite agony a man feels who 
is thrown over by the woman who is all the 
world to him — thrown over for, perhaps, the 
first chance acquaintance. 

Lady V. No. No. There you're wrong. 
It wasn't the first chance acquaintance. Let 
it pass. You're mean to remind me of that, — 
as mean as a woman. 

Dr. C. As mean as a woman ! 

Lady V. Yes, that's the perpetual paradox 
of womanhood. We are angels — I feel sure 
of it — and yet we do such mean things. How 
do you account for it ? 

Dr. C. I can't. I trust, meantime, you're 
making a comfortable dinner. 

Lady V. I feel as if I were picnicing on 
my mother's grave in the damp. 

Dr. C. Why? 

Lady V. Cold chicken is as cold as cold 
shoulder. But cold chicken and love make a 
divine hot collation. 

Dr. C. I fear I have only cold chicken to 
offer you. 

Lady V. {shrugs her shoulders 



88 THE PHYSICIAN act III 

ing. After a little pause). You haven't asked 
me about the last two months. 

Dr. C. Tell me. 

Lady V. You know I got a telegram saying 
that it was only a question of a few weeks. So 
I went out to him at once. I didn't wish to 
outrage the decent hypocrisies whereby men 
live 

Dr. C. Men don't live by hypocrisies. 

Lady V. Well, society does. And I've al- 
ways loyalty respected them and lived up to 
them. Well, I went out to him and was per- 
fectly kind and attentive to him to the last. 
And so ended the tragic farce of my married 
life. It's over. I spent one month in unself- 
ishly nursing him — I spent the next month in 
unselfishly devising a schme of widow's mourn- 
ing that should spare my bereaved sisters the 
additional pang of feeling themselves perfect 
frights during the period of their greatest 
sorrow. (Gets up and comes away from table.) 
How do you think I have succeeded ? 

(She has a long handsome cloak with black 
fur. She stands with arms extended 
and with a little entreatifig gesture to- 
wards him. ) 

Dr. C. (coldly). Admirably, I should say. 
But I'm no judge. 

Lady V. Do you know what I was thinking 



act in * THE PHYSICIAN 89 

all the time I was planning this mourning ? I 
was thinking — will it give me one of my old 
moments of charm in his eyes ? Or, if not, 
will it give me some new little grace or attrac- 
tion ? 

{He does not reply. She stands for a mo- 
ment with a little appealing gesture, 
then suddenly bursts into a tempest of 
tears. ) 
Dr. C. Lady Valerie ! {She is sobbing.') 
Lady Valerie, will you listen to me ? 

Lady V. No ! No 1 No ! Oh, I hate my- 
self, and I hate you ! I hate you ! Oh ! Oh ! 
Oh ! Let me go ! 

{He is between her and the door. ) 
Dr. C. No. Hear me. I cannot give you 
the love I once offered you, and I have too 
tender a regard for the past and for you to offer 
you the ghost of it. Would you have me do 
it ? Would you have me offer you a fiction, 
a lie ? Would you have me pretend to love 
you, knowing that my whole heart, my every 
thought and hope and desire belong to another 
woman? 

Lady V. But you can never marry her ! 
{A curious look of hope on Dr. Carey's face which 
she sees and interprets. ) She has broken off her 
engagement to Mr. Amphiel ? Something has 
happened to him ? 



90 THE PHYSICIAN ' act hi 

Dr. C. No. He is now on his way here. 

Lady V. Then what makes you so hopeful ? 
You can never marry her. 

Dr. C. No, perhaps not. 

Lady V. And you might come back to me. — 
It's not too late ? it's not too late? you might 
change ? ( Very imploringly .) 

Dr. C. I shall never change. {Very firmly.') 
I shall never change. 

{She stands very hopeless for some seconds, 
then makes a shrug of 'resignation. Her 
manner changes t and is careless and off- 
hand till the e7id of the scene. ) 

Lady V. Very well. Put on your hat and 
coat and see me across to the inn. Put on your 
hat and coat. {He takes his hat and coat.) I 
want your advice. 

Dr. C. Advice ? About what ? 

Lady V. Marriage. I can have Bertie 
Fewins or Sir George Doudney. Which shall 
it be ? 

Dr. C. Neither. 

Lady V. Oh it must be one or the other. 
And it must be settled at once ; so I shall get 
back by the mail to-night. {Going towards outer 
door. ) Come. 

Dr. C. This will be our nearest way to the 
George. It will save us the lane. Take my arm 
through the passage. {Indicating inner door.) 



act in THE PHYSICIAN 91 

Lady V. {taking his arm). Which shall it be ? 
Bertie or Sir George ? 

Dr. C. Neither ! Neither ! Why should it 
be either ? 

Lady V. My dear Lewin, what shall I be in 
five years time if I don't marry somebody ? 
What shall I do ? I'm neither a saint nor a 
fool, so I can't stand perpetual church-going. 
No ! It must be marriage. Bertie or Sir 
George ? 

Dr. C. That won't be marriage, that will be 
desecration of a woman's soul ! 

Lady V. {shakes her head, makes a face as if 
taking physic*). It's a devil of a world for 
women, Lewin. For God's sake don't moralise 
about it. 

{Exeunt at inner door. A very long pause. 
A knock at outer door. The knock is 
repeated. The Rev. Peregrine 

Hinde puts in his head at outer door 
and looks round.) 

Rev. P. {calling out). Dr. Carey! Mrs. 
Bowden ! Dr. Carey ! ( Coming in. ) I came 
to Taffy's house. Taffy's wasn't at home. 
{Speaking off.) There's nobody here. 

Re-enter Edana at outer door. 

Edana. Won't Dr. Carey think it strange of 
me coming again ? 



92 THE PHYSICIAN act hi 

Rev. P. No, no. I've got a waggon-load 
of excuses. He can't have gone far. We'll wait 
till he comes back. ( They go towards fire. ) 

There ! Sit down ! [She sits in arm-chair.) 

Edana. I'm sure he has had some news, and 
I'm sure its bad news. Oh, I must know — do 
you think he'll tell us the truth ? 

Rev. P. If he doesn't tell us, I must gently 
wheedle it out of him. Have you ever studied 
the composition of my character, Edana ? 

Edana. No. 

Rev. P. No ? Then you've never observed 
how exquisitely Providence has blended in me 
the beautiful transparent innocence of the dove 
with the subtle and useful wisdom of the ser- 
pent. We'll begin by asking him for some little 
sleeping draught 

Edana. Oh, I cannot endure another night ! 

Rev. P. Indeed you can. The human spirit 
can endure unendurable things. There is noth- 
*ng the human spirit cannot endure. Come, 
come ! [Chafing her hands.) How cold these 
poor little paws are ! Put your head on the 
cushion ! There ! [Arranging her comfortably 
in arm-chair. ) Rest a little till Dr. Carey comes. 
Now what shall I do to wile away the time ? 
Shall I preach you a little sermon ? Or shall I 
tell you a little tale ? Or shall I sing you a 
little song ? Or shall I do all three ? 



ACT in THE PHYSICIAN 9a 

Edana. All three. You don't think Walter 
is ill — or dead ? Oh, what shall I do? 

Rev. P. Hush ! Hush ! Hush ! {Soothes 
her down. ) The times are not in our hands. 
(From this time she shows signs of drowsiness, until 
the middle of the song, when she is fast asleep. ) Now, 
first the little sermon. You should never put all 
your eggs in one basket, unless that basket is 
made of celestial wickerwork and is safely 
stored away in heaven. That's the sermon. Its 
metaphors are a little mixed, but its brevity is 
undeniable. Now for the little tale. There was 
once a wilful, headstrong, reckless, loose-living 
young man whose name was — whose name 
was ? 

Edana. (a little drowsily). Peregrine Hinde. 

Rev. P. Peregrine Hinde. And he loved 
with all his heart a beautiful heartless woman, 
whose name was — whose name was ? 

Edana. Venetia Lee, and she jilted him. 

Rev. P. She did. And he went about in 
black despair for months. He thought his heart 
was broken all to pieces. But it wasn't. He 
conquered his trouble, and he met another girl 
who made him a dear, true helpmeet all the 
years of his manhood. And now when he re- 
members that old trouble it's only to think of 
the use and the beauty of sorrow. 

Edana. What use ? What beauty ? 



94 THE PHYSICIAN act III 

Rev. P. The use of beautifying our faces. 
Happiness rounds a face into earthly beauty, 
but sorrow bravely borne carves it into heavenly 
loveliness. That's one use. And there's no use 
in this world so useful as beauty. And another 
use is to beautify our characters and fortify our 
spirits. Dear me, dear me, dear me ! I'm 
preaching another sermon. And another use 
that old troubles have is the use of making a 
tale to tell to our children over the fire on a 
winter evening. There ! Now for the little 
song ! 

(By this time her eyes are closed. He 
croons out an old country song — stops 
in the middle of it and looks at her — 
sees she is fast asleep. A knock at the 
outer door. Rev. Peregrine Hinde 
goes to ope?i it, opens it. ) 

Stephen Gurdon enters. 

Rev. P. Stephen ! 

Stephen. Is the doctor here ? 

Rev. P. No, I'm waiting for him. What's 
the matter ? 

Stephen. Jessie's come home. 

Rev. P. Jessie ? 

Stephen. She wants to see a doctor, so I 
thought I'd come here as Dr. Carey is nearest. 



ACT in THE PHYSICIAN 95 

And she said she should like to see you too, 
pa'son. 

Rev. P. Very well, Stephen. I'll come to 
her. Is she ill ? 

Stephen. She ain't in any immediate danger, 
but she doesn't look as if she'd got many 
months to live. 

Rev. P. Poor child ! Is she changed ? 

Stephen. She's what you might expect her 
to be. What would any girl be after five years 

of that life ? What would 

(Glancing very significantly at Edana, 
who is sleeping in the armchair.} 

Rev. P. (hastily). Hush! Hush! She 
hasn't slept for three nights ! (Draws the cur- 
tains down. ) I can leave her for a few minutes. 
Now, Stephen, I'll go with you ! 

(Exeunt Stephen and Rev. Peregrine 
Hinde at outer door. A long pause.) 

Edana (asleep, moans). Walter! Walter! 
Come away from them ! Come ! I'll take care 
of you ! Ah ! (A little shriek.} Don't hurt him ! 
You don't know how brave and good he is ! 
Make haste, dear! Make haste! (Laughs.) 
That's right ! Come along ! Dearest ! Dearest ! 
Dearest ! ( Very caressing, zvith movement of 

stroking his hair with her hand. ) Where have 
you been all this while ? Why did you leave me 
so long ? And not a word ! Oh, it's cruel ! 



96 THE PHYSICIAN act hi 

Don't leave me again! You won't? You 

won't ? 

(A long moan, the?i silence. After a long 
pause, Dr. Carey enters at inner door, 
goes up to the table in the bay window, 
throws off his hat and overcoat, and puts 
them carelessly on the chair r. of table 
in window, takes up a glass slide, puts 
it under microscope, is busy bending over 
it for some seconds. Amphiel's face 
appears to the right of the window at 
back, looks in and creeps stealthily all 
round the window. As soon as he has 
disappeared to the left, Dr. Carey shows 
sudden attetition as if he were arrested by 
a sound outside. He hastily leaves table 
and goes to the little window l., looks 
off. A gleam of interest, almost triumph, 
crosses his face. The handle of the outer 
door is fumbled at and half turned. Dr. 
Carey watches it. The handle is again 
turned, and the door opens {on to the 
stage), Amphiel's face being seen by the 
audie7ice before it is seen by Dr. Carey. 
Amphiel looks very haggard and dis- 
sipated. His first expression seen by the 
audience is watchful, sly, and anxious, 
but as he enters, and is seen by Dr. 
Carey, he assumes a frank, cordial man- 
ner, goes up to Dr. Carey with out- 
stretched hand.) 



act III THE PHYSICIAN 97 

Amphiel (very cordially). Ah, Doctor, you 
got my telegram 

Dr. C. (refusing his hand). Yes. 

Amphiel. I thought I'd let you know I was 
coming. I've been working in the good cause. 
I knew you would't let me go, so I slipped 
away. Won't you shake hands with me and 
welcome me back ? 

Dr. C. (rather sternly). Where have you 
been? 

Amphiel (with the utmost frankness). In the 
West of England looking after the refuges 
I started last year. We've done such good 
work in Bristol. (Edana stirs a little and 
moves her hand.) Why do you look at me 
like that ? 

Dr. C. (more sternly). Where have you 
been ? 

Amphiel. What makes you so angry with 
me? Surely you don't suspect — you don't 
suspect that I've broken my word ? 

Dr. C. (very sternly). Where have you 
been ? 

Amphiel. Don't I tell you I've been engaged 
in my work. 

Dr. C. All the time? 

Amphiel. Yes, every day, every hour, almost 
every minute since I left you. I've done noth- 
ing else. 



98 THE PHYSICIAN act hi 

Dr. C. You liar ! 

(Edana opens her eyes and looks round, 
scarcely awake, listens as if in contin- 
uance of her dream, gradually growing 
more and more interested.} 

Amphiel. You don't believe me ? I can give 
you an account of how I have spent every mo- 
ment of my absence. 

Dr. C. Shall I give you an account instead ? 
Shall I tell you where and how you have spent 
the last few days ? You've been at the Harp in 
Temple Mead, Bristol, one of the lowest and 
filthiest dens in the place. Shall I tell you in 
what condition and in whose company you've 
been ? You've been lying there in a drunken 
debauch since last Thursday, in the company of 
sots and harlots, fouling, maddening, destroy- 
ing yourself. 

Amphiel. It's true ! It's true ! I'm a beast ! 
I'm a beast! I'm not fit to live — I'll go and 
end it this moment. 

{Rushing off towards outer door.*) 

Dr. C. Stop, you fool ! There's somebody 
else to think of. Do you know what this means 
to her ? Do you know that she has been night 
and day on a rack of suspense ? She was here 
just now begging me — begging me to give her 
some news of you. 

Amphiel. You didn't tell her ? 



act in THE PHYSICIAN 99 

Dr. C. No. I left that for you to do. Go 
and report yourself to her. 

Amphiel. What do you mean ? 
Dr. C. She must know sooner or later. 
Do you think I will let you wreck her life as 
well as your own ? Do you think I will stand 
by and let her marry you ; bear you children 
that will perhaps inherit your taint in every 
bone and nerve, let her watch you sinking inch 
by inch into imbecility and corruption, while 
she gradually loses all her beauty and trust and 
love — Oh, my God ! what a gift for a man ! — 
and becomes a hopeless, wretched drudge to 
you and your vice — do you think I'll stand 
by and see that? Eh, do you think I will? 
No! Put an end to it! Do you hear? Put 
an end to it ! She's over at the Vicarage 
waiting for news of you. Go and tell her 
what you are. 

(Edana, who has been listening, amazed 

and horrified, comes to curtains still 

dazed and overwhelmed.} 
Amphiel. Very well. You can make me tell 
her ; but, mark me, if you do I'll end. it. The 
moment she knows me for what I am I'll kill 
myself. 

(Edana, who is about to draw aside the 

curtains and declare herself, draws 

back, stands still, horror-stricken, till 

end of scene. ) 



100 THE PHYSICIAN act III 

Amphiel {suddenly tur?is to Dr. Carey, with 
an outburst of agonized entreaty). Give me one 
more chance ! Don't let her know ! Give me 
one more chance ! I'll keep my word this time ! 

Dr. C. Your word ! 

Amphiel. I will ! I will ! Don't despise 
me ! I'm not so bad as you think me. Oh, do 
hear me ! Don't let her know ! 

Dr. C. But to continue to deceive her — the 
hypocrisy 

Amphiel. I'm not a hypocrite ! I've given 
all my time and money to save others from this 
curse! I'm not a hypocrite; don't think that 
of me ! Oh, you don't know what awful 
struggles I've had — how I've tried and tried 
and tried to conquer myself. And I will ! I 
won't give way again ! Give me one more 
chance ! You're my only friend ! Don't turn 
away from me ! Give me one more chance, 
only one, only one. One more chance, for 
mercy's sake — one more chance ! 

Dr. C. And if I did, how could I trust you 
now ? 

Amphiel. I'll give you my oath. Listen. 
I mean it. There's no going back from this. 
Remember what I say and bring it up against 
me. If ever from this time forth one cursed 
drop shall pass my lips, may I lose her, may I 
lose my soul and everything that I hold dear in 



ACT in THE PHYSICIAN 101 

this world and the next. There ! I've said it. 
You believe me ? You'l] give me one last 
chance for her sake ? One last chance ! 

Dr. C. For her sake, because I put her 
happiness beyond everything in this world, I 
will give you one last chance. I'll forget these 
last few weeks — do you forget them too — and 
I'll help you again to the very utmost of my 
power. 

Amphiel {bursts into tears). God bless you ! 

I'll — I'll — I'll {breaking down, sobbing and 

exhausted. ) God bless you ! You are good to 
me! and I'll deserve it. I will— I'll — I'll 

Dr. C. Come ! come ! You're too excited. 
You had better go to rest. Let me get you 
something after your journey. 

Amphiel. No. I can't eat. I — I — I 

{clinging to Dr. Carey piteously and crying 
feebly). Oh, I feel so weak and wretched. I'll 
get to rest— I'll 

Dr. C. Ah, my poor lad, this is a hard task- 
master you've got. You've escaped him this 
time. Don't fall into his hands again, for he'll 
have no mercy on you. 

Amphiel. I won't! I won't! {Crying.) 
Oh, you are good to me. You won't leave me. 

Dr. C. {very tenderly). No, no, I won't leave 
you. Trust to me. Don't despair. We'll make 
a fresh start to-morrow. {Soothing him and help- 



102 THE PHYSICIAN act hi 

ing him to inner door.') Come, come ! Cheer 
up ! There, there ! A fresh start ! A new life 
to-morrow. 

{Helping him off at inner door. Closes it. 
Comes down stage slowly, reflectively, with 
anxious face .) 
(Edana, who has stood horror-stricken and 
quite still behind the curtairs, draws them 
slowly aside. His eye catches the moveme?it 
of the curtains, and he watches them, sees 
her standing there. ) 
Dr. C. You heard ? {She signs " Yes.") 

Curtain. 

{Nine months pass between Acts III. and IV.) 



ACT IV 

Scene — The Vicarage Drawing-Room at Font- 
leas, a pleasant cosy room with pretty chintz 
furniture. 

A large window at back looking over a garden in 
late summer. A door r. A door l. Discover 
Rev. Peregrine up at windozu, which is open. 

Rev. P. {calling off towards l.). Go round, 
Mrs. Bowden. Go round and come in ! 

{Crosses to left and opens the door?) 

Enter Mrs. Bowden in her Sunday best. 

Mrs. B. {curtseying). Good afternoon pa'son. 
I felt I must come and ask after Miss Edana — 
and whether she has heard the good news ? 

Rev. P. Good news ? 

Mrs. B. We've just had a telegram from 
Dr. Carey. He's coming back to-day. Haven't 
you heard ? 

Rev. P. Oh yes. We've had a telegram too. 

(103) 



104 THE PHYSICIAN act IV 

Mrs. B. And of course Mr. Amphiel is 
coming along with him ? 

Rev. P. {rather troubled'). Oh yes — Mr. 
Amphiel is coming with him. 

Mrs. B. I was so pleased, because I 
thought, " There! It's quite a providence Mr. 
Amphiel coming back just as Miss Edana has 
got well again." How is she ? 

Rev. P. Much better. Quite well ! Quite 
her old self except for a little weakness. 

Edana enters door r. ; her features are sharper, 
and she shows signs of ilhiess and suffering. 

Rev. P. Here she is ! 

Mrs. B. (going cordially to Edana). My dear, 
I be so glad to see your pretty face again ! I 
must give you a kiss for the sake of old times ! 
(Kissing her. ) Ah, there's somebody else com- 
ing to kiss you this blessed day. 

(A shade of trotible and horror crosses 
Edana's face and she turns away.) 
Mrs. B. And how are you, my dear ? 
Edana. I'm better, thank you. 

(Sits down apart, with a quiet and re- 
served manner. Wedding bells ring 
out. ) 
Rev. P. Dear me ! I was forgetting — I've 
got to marry James Hebbings and Louisa Pack. 



ACT IV THE PHYSICIAN 105 

— I suppose you're coming to the wedding, 
Mrs. Bowden ? 

Mrs. B. Yes, to be sure — and aren't you 
coming, my dear — to see James and Louisa 
married ? 

Edana. No — I'd rather stay at home. 

Mrs. B. Ah, to be sure ! I don't wonder. 
You're expecting Mr. Amphiel every minute. 
Let me see — how long is it since he and Dr. 
Carey went away — it was last December, wasn't 
it ? — How time does slip away ! 

Rev. P. {trying to get her away from Edana). 
Yes, it does ! We ought to be at the church. — 
Come along, Mrs. Bowden. 

Mrs. B. (Jo Edana). Well, good-bye, my 
dear. I hear poor Jessie Gurdon is very near 
the end, pa'son. 

Rev. P. Yes, poor girl ! I was with her 
last night, and I scarcely thought she'd last till 
this morning. 

Mrs. B. Oh dear, oh dear ! what a world 
of sin and misery it is, to be sure ! It's a good 
job as there's a better one by-and-by. 

Rev. P. It's a bad job, Mrs. Bowden, that 
folks don't make a good job of this one, here 
and now. 

Enter, l., Lizzie, the Vicarage servant. 
Lizzie. James Hebbings and Louisa Pack 



106 THE PHYSICIAN ACT iv 

would like to see you for a minute before the 
wedding, sir. 

Rev. P. Show them in. 

Lizzie beckons off a?id J ames and Louisa enter l., 
in their wedding clothes. They are arm-in-arm, 
and James is very much embarrassed. 

James. We've come, pa' son 

{Breaks down and has a little fit of foolish 
giggling. ) 

Louisa {nudging James). Do behave your- 
self, James. (To Rev. Peregrine.) We thought 
as Miss Edana wasn't coming to the church, we 
shouldn't like her to miss seeing us in our wed- 
ding clothes. 

(Spreading herself and J ames for Edana's 
inspection. ) 

Edana. Thank you, Louisa — thank you, 
James. (With effort to take an biter est.') 

Mrs. B. Very sweet, oh, very sweet. Quite 
taking ! (Admiring them.) 

James. And also we thought we might akse 
you, pa'son, whether everything is in good order 
for the wedding — that is, so fur as your part of 
these proceedings is concerned (adds thought- 
fully) thereby. 

Rev. P. My part of the proceedings shall 
be duly and punctually performed, James. 



ACT IV THE PHYSICIAN 107 

James. And ours also. 

{Suddenly makes a grab at his waistcoat 
pocket, shows alarm, feels in his pock- 
ets, disengages himself from Louisa, 
fumbles. ) 
Louisa. What's the matter ? 
James. I've lost the ring. 

Louisa. No — no 

James. Yes — no, here it is. That's all 
right! I'll make sure of it this time. 

{Placing it carefully in pocket, keeps one 

hand carefully on the pocket all the 

remainder of the scene. ) 

Louisa. Do behave yourself, James. 

(James gives her his arm very ceremoniously.} 

And we wish you our best respects, miss. 

And we thank you for your beautiful present. 

And we're so sorry you aren't coming to the 

wedding 

Mrs. B. Why don't you perk up a bit, my 
dear, and come ? 

Edana {quickly). No, no, indeed I can't. 
But I hope you will be very happy. 

James {with a giggle, glancing at Louisa). 
No fear ! And also no fear for you and Mr. 

Amphiel, miss 

Louisa. And we hope you'll very soon be 
married yourself, miss. 

(Edana turns away to tvindow and hides 
her head. ) 



108 THE PHYSICIAN act iv 

James. What's the matter ? 
Mrs. B. Don't you see, you silly chap ? 
It's her joy that her sweetheart's coming back. 
He's been nearly all over the world, and she 
hasn't seen him for nine months. 

Rev. P. {who has shown sympathy with Ed an a). 

Come, I think it's nearly time that we were all 

over at the church. Now, James. Now, Louisa. 

James {to Louisa). Have we said anything 

wrong ? 

{Exeunt James and Louisa arm-in-ai'm, 
door l.) 

Rev. P. Now, Mrs. Bowden 

(Ed ana is sobbing a little in window.) 
Mrs. B. Good-bye, my dear! It's joy at 
the thought of seeing him ! 

{Makiiig a movement to go to Edana. ) 
Rev. P. {intercepting her). If it is joy, let it 
be sacred. Leave her to me ! 

Mrs. B. {snivelling a little'). I know what 
it is. God bless you, my dear. 

{Exit Mrs. Bowden door l., leaving 
the door open. ) 
Rev. P. {to Edana). My dear! this has 
been too much for you. 

(Lizzie shows in Stephen by the open 
door. Exit Lizzie.) 
Rev. P. Stephen — it's all over? 
Stephen. Yes. I want a word with you, 



ACT IV THE PHYSICIAN 109 

pa' son. (Edana is going. ) And with you too, 
miss. 

Edana. Poor Jessie is gone ? 

Stephen. Yes. She asked me to thank 
you, and you too, pa'son, for all your kind- 
ness. (A little pause. ) And I think I ought 
to tell you 

Rev. P. What ? 

Stephen. Last night, in the middle of the 
night, she was quite clear and bright, and she 
looked for a minute or two like her old self. 
She told me the name of the man who ruined 
her and took her away from home. 

Rev. P. Yes ? Who was it, Stephen ? 

Stephen. It's the man that's coming back 
to Fontleas to-day. 

Rev. P. Are you sure, Stephen, it was he ? 

Stephen. She was dying, and she didn't tell 
me a lie. You know the man I mean, miss ? 

Edana. Yes. 

Stephen. Then I needn't say any more. 
That's the man that ruined Jessie and led her 
into that life of shame. If you marry him 
now ycu marry him with your eyes open. 
(Edana turns away.) I've done right to warn 
her, pa'son ? 

Rev. P. Yes, Stephen, you've done right. 

Stephen. He's expected to-day, ain't he? 

Rev. P. Yes, every minute. 



110 THE PHYSICIAN act iv 

Stephen. I shall have a word to say to him. 

Rev. P. No Stephen, no. You'll forgive 
him. Go now; I'll come over to you by-and-by. 

Stephen. I shall have a word to say to him. 
{Exit Stephen, l. ) 

Rev. P. My poor girl ! 

Edana. Father, I cannot marry him ! I 
cannot ! I cannot ! We were wrong not to tell 
him before he left England. 

Rev. P. We did it for the best. Dr. Carey 
said that if he knew you had found him out it 
would most likely prey upon his mind and drive 
him to drink and death. And when Dr. Carey 
offered to give him one more chance and take 
him away 

Edana. I think Dr. Carey is the truest and 
best man that ever lived. I can never thank 
him enough. But I was wrong to let him go, I 
ought to have told Walter and broken it off at 
the time 

Rev. P. Suppose you had, and had sent 
him to despair 

Edana. He will have to know now. I 
wonder he hasn't guessed it from my letters. I 
wonder he didn't guess it when I wished him 
"Good-bye," for I shuddered and felt — oh, I 
cannot tell you how I felt — almost as if I hated 
him. And all these months he has been away, 
I have felt my dislike for him growing day by 



act iv THE PHYSICIAN 111 

day. And he is coming back, as he thinks, to 
marry me — you remember what he said in his 
last letter. And Dr. Carey writes that he has 
really kept his word this time. Oh, tell me 
what can I do ? what can I do ? I don't want 
to be cruel to him — I don't want to drive him to 
that; but whatever happens, I cannot marry 
him, I cannot ! I cannot ! I cannot ! 

Ee-enter Lizzie, r. 

Lizzie. They've sent over from the church, 
sir. The folks are all there, and they're wait- 
ing for you to go on with the wedding. 

Rev. P. Very well, Lizzie, I'll come at once. 
{Exit Lizzie, l. ) I must go. Don't give way, 
dear. I'll come back as soon as the wedding is 
over. 

Edana. And you'll think of some way of 

breaking it to him without 

Rev. P. Without breaking your heart and 
without breaking his ? Yes, I must think of 
some way. I must think of some way. 

{Exit l. , puzzling and anxious. Edana, 
left alone, goes to table, sits, and buries 
her face in hands. Dr. Carey appears 
at the window r. , and watches her with 
great interest for some ?noments without 
her seeing him ; at length, in turning, 
she catches sight of him ; stops. ) 



112 THE PHYSICIAN act iv 

Edana. Dr. Carey 

{A little alarmed. ) 

Dr. C. {through the window. He is bronzed as 
if with a long sea voyage). May I come in ? 

Edana. Is any one with you ? 

Dr. C. No, I am alone. 

Edana. Will you go round ? 

{He disappears at back. Enters l., looks 
at her with great interest, anxiety, 
longing, and affection.') 

Dr. C. Are you better ? 

Edana. Yes. 

Dr. C. No one in the house ? 

Edana. No, they are gone to the wedding. 
Are you alone ? 

Dr. C. Yes — quite — for the time. ( Taking 
her hands.) Let me look at you. You've been 
very ill ? 

Edana. Yes. It was that dreadful night. I 
didn't feel it at the time, but after you and he 

had gone, I felt — I {Shudders, then suddenly 

breaks down and sobs out.) Oh, I'm so glad 
you've come back ! {Sobbing.) 

Dr. C. Come, come, I must have you 
brave ! 

Edana. {a little recovering.) Where is he ? 

Dr. C. I've not brought him to Fontleas. 

Edana. Is he better — well? 

Dr. C. Quite well. 



act iv THE PHYSICIAN 113 

Edana. Where is he ? 

Dr. C. I had to hurry to Europe, because I 
wanted to get to India at once and deal with 
this fresh outbreak of the plague. So I had to 
leave him. 

Edana. Leave him ? Where ? 

Dr. C. He hasn't come by this vessel. He 
won't be back for some weeks — perhaps 
months. ( Watching her very closely.) 

Edana. Oh, I'm so glad ! 

Dr. C. {with a sudden light of hope in his face). 
Glad ? (Looks at her again with anxious interro- 
gation.) Glad? {She nods.) Miss Hinde, 
what do you mean ? 

Edana. I cannot marry him. (Dr. Carey's 
face brightens with the utmost excitement of hope. ) 
I must write and tell him. Dr. Carey, if he 
knows that our engagement is broken off and 
that I can never see him again, will it harm 
him? Will it drive him to despair — and 
worse ? 

Dr. C. No. 

Edana. You're sure ? 

Dr. C. Quite sure. Miss Hinde, three days 
before we sailed, he left me. I feared what had 
happened. I saw no more of him till an hour 
before the ship was due to leave. He came on 
board a perfect wreck ; he had been sleeping in 
the rain, and was very ill 



114 THE PHYSICIAN act iv 

Edana. Go on. 

Dr. C. He had a few days of awful agony 
and remorse, and then pneumonia set in. He 
passed away very peacefully {wedding hymn in 
church), and asked me to beg you to forgive 
him. 

Edana. I forgive him. And you — what 
will you do ? 

Dr. C. I go to India, unless — unless 

{He holds out his arms to her with a gesture 
of longing entreaty. She goes to him 
very simply. He utters a great cry of 
satisfied love as she falls into his arms. ) 

Curtain. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: April 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

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(724)779-2111 



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